


Evidence and Instinct

by Marinawings



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery, Some angst, Teamwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-22
Updated: 2011-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 22:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 32,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marinawings/pseuds/Marinawings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam is accused of murder and targeted by a brash DCI, Gene has to make sure Sam survives. Sam and Gene have to work together to find the real killer before it's too late for Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well here it is, finally: My Life on Mars Big Bang story! Though plagued by delays and technical difficulties, this story lives on! What a survivor. :)
> 
> The only thing that didn't translate well from the original is the italics. But that's not catastrophic, so I'm happy.

Evidence and Instinct

Part One

Sam was clearly nervous as he shuffled into lost and found, flanked by DCI Gore and DS Babbin. His eyes met Gene's, and he flinched, immediately avoiding his DCI's incredulous stare.

Why did you do it, Sam? Gene wondered as he studied his DI. What possessed you to throw everything away? What on earth made you angry enough to kill?

Gore grabbed Sam by the arm and roughly shoved him down into the solitary chair on the other side of the table from Gene. Sam grunted, but went quickly quiet, staring down at his booted feet. He had been so defiant earlier, so insistent of his innocence. Was he giving up the ruse? Or—dare Gene hope it—was he tired of the truth being ignored? Despite all the evidence pointing so firmly in his direction, was Sam Tyler innocent of the murder of Robert Boardman?

Gore moved to stand beside Gene, while Babbin hovered near the door, looking as ridiculous and stupid as he always had. Gene didn't like them, either of them—not Gore with his overweening arrogance and not Babbin with his glaring idiocy. But they were apparently better coppers than they let on. They had solved this case... it would seem.

“Sam.”

Sam lifted his head and met Gene's eyes, and some of the defiance was back. “Guv?”

Gene's heart clenched painfully. He ignored it. “I want—I want you to tell me what happened the night of April 11.”

Sam clenched his jaw and looked away, his eyes suddenly glistening. “What is there to tell, Guv? You've already made up your mind about me. You already think I did it.”

“The evidence tells me that you did,” Gene replied quietly. Why was his voice sticking in his throat? Why was his stomach twisting in knots?

“The evidence.” Sam met his eyes again, his mouth curved in a wry smile. “The evidence gathered by these two thugs you don't even like.”

“Oi!” Gore started toward Sam, but Gene held up a restraining hand.

“The evidence that I myself have seen. The evidence that Ray and Chris and Cartwright helped process,” Gene bit out, growing impatient with his accused DI.

Sam tilted his head sideways, studying Gene with eyes that were alarmingly bright with tears. “The evidence tells you that I'm guilty. But what about your famous gut instinct, Guv? What does that tell you?”

Gene swallowed hard. His throat was tight for some reason. Maybe because Sam was right. His instinct did contradict the evidence. His instinct was screaming Sam didn't do this! Sam wouldn't do this! This is Sam! But he shook his head. “Just tell me what happened.”

Sam chewed on his lower lip for a moment, looking sideways at Gene. Then he sighed. “Alright. I'll tell you.”

Gene could feel Gore and Babbin leaning in closer.

Sam lifted his chin in that stubborn little gesture Gene was becoming used to. “On the night of April 11, I was in my flat, attempting to cook some chicken on that cheap little stove. I burned it. Smelled awful. I wasn't feeling well. I had a headache, so I went to bed early. And then--” He stopped and looked away, looked back down at his feet.

“And then what, Sammy?” Gene asked, inwardly pleading for Sam to say something, anything that would clear his name.

Sam looked up, straight into his Guv's eyes. “Then I went to sleep. Had some weird dreams.” He shrugged, the motion weary and resigned. “And that's it. That's all.”

“You're lying!” Gore burst out, darting around the desk. “You didn't sleep at all that night. You were too busy with murder, you bloody bastard!” With that, he drew back his arm and struck Sam's cheek hard with the back of his hand.

Sam's head snapped back, and he nearly fell out of his chair.

“Oi!” Gene leaped to his feet, instinctively coming to the defense of his DI.

“Back off, Hunt.” Gore held up a hand. There was a nasty light in his eyes that Gene didn't like. “Don't say you haven't done the same. This man is a traitor and a killer. He deserves worse.”

Gene swallowed, biting down his protests. What Gore said made sense... If Sam were a killer. He looked at Sam, studying the younger man's face, wincing in sympathy at the angry red welt rising on Sam's cheekbone.

“Guv,” Sam said hoarsely. He swallowed visibly. “Please listen to me. I didn't do this.”

“Your tricks won't work on us, Tyler,” Gore growled. “Babbin.” He motioned to his DS. “Lend me a hand. We're going to make sure Tyler tells us the whole truth.”

“I just—I just did!” Sam protested.

Gene could only watch in horror, his stomach sickening, as big, lumbering Babbin moved to Sam's side, then reached down and yanked the DI to his feet. He closed his eyes for a second, wishing to God he didn't have to see this—and wishing even harder that the events leading up to it had never happened. He wanted so badly to intervene, to get Sam out of there, to find out—without a shadow of a doubt—that Sam was innocent. Instead, he stood watching as Babbin jerked Sam's arms behind him, holding him still as Gore circled him.

“You've been at Manchester CID for a while now, Tyler,” Gore said, flexing his fingers. He stopped walking and stood toe to toe with Sam, looking down at the smaller man with apparent disgust. “You know how this works.”

“Yes. I know how this works,” Sam replied, his voice saturated with sarcasm.

Gene sighed. Don't provoke him, Sam. Tamp down that smugness. It's not gonna help you now.

And Gene was right. It didn't.

Gore snarled and drove his fist into Sam's stomach. Sam choked out a gasp and bent forward, but Babbin chuckled and held him upright.

Gore laughed and watched with interest as Sam managed to regain his breath. As soon as the DI's breath was back, Gore punched it out of him again. And repeated the process a third time.

Gene suffered a distinct urge to vomit. When Gore drew back his fist a fourth time, he stepped forward and held out a hand. “Eh! Gore! We don't want to kill him.”

Gore turned to look at Gene with surprise and a touch of distaste. “He'll be fine. It's not like you've never roughed up a suspect before, right, Hunt?”

“Guv--” Sam croaked, lifting his head.

“Shut up!” Gore backhanded Sam again, grinning as he did so.

Gene didn't like that grin.

“If you open your mouth again, the only thing I want coming out of it is a confession!” Gore snapped. He nodded to Babbin, and the big man let go of Sam.

Sam dropped to the floor on all fours, panting. His elbows were shaking, his back heaving as he struggled to breathe.

Gene's chest tightened as he watched his DI suffer. He wanted so badly to rush to Sam's side, pick him up off the floor and drag him out of there, take him somewhere safe. But Sam deserved this, didn't he? Sam had killed someone, murdered an innocent man...

“Tell me why you killed Robert Boardman,” Gore demanded, squatting down beside Sam.

Sam shook his head, then looked up to meet Gore's gaze. “I can't tell you,” he gasped out. “I can't tell you because I didn't do it.” His voice was fervent, insistent.

Honest.

Gene's eyebrows rose. He had never heard a man sound more honest. He ran the facts of the case viciously through his mind, searching for something, anything to prove Sam's innocence.

“Liar!” Gore shouted. He drew back a foot and kicked Sam hard in the side.

Sam gave a cry of pain and collapsed to the floor. “Guv, please,” he moaned, clutching his stomach and looking to Gene.

Gene found he couldn't meet Sam's pleading eyes. “Gore--”

The other officer ignored Gene and kicked Sam again. Babbin followed suit, smashing his foot into Sam's ribs.

“That's enough!” Gene barked.

Sam curled into a ball at Gore's feet. “Guv,” he croaked out.

Gene felt as if a hand had reached into his chest and tore at his heart. “Gore, Babbin. Stop it!” he roared.

Gore froze, his foot poised inches from Sam's head. He narrowed his eyes on Gene. “Protecting your little pet, Hunt? Are you blind, man? He's a killer!”

Ignoring the conversation, Babbin chuckled to himself and lashed out at Sam's back, eliciting a muffled groan from the DI.

“Stop it, you bloody oaf!” Gene shouted, rushing around the desk. He didn't care that Babbin had a couple of inches and thirty pounds of sheer muscle on him. He had to stop the man before Sam was hurt any worse. He reached out and caught hold of Babbin's meaty arm. “If you don't stop kickin' my DI, I swear by all that's holy and some that's not that you will be wearing prosthetic limbs from now until the hereafter. Is that clear?”

Babbin sneered at him for a moment, but must have seen the seriousness in Gene's eyes. He blinked, a look of fright touching his own dull brown eyes. Silently, he took a step back from Sam, yanking his arm from Gene's grasp.

“Now. That's better,” Gene spat. He turned to Gore, who was watching him warily. “This way isn't working. He hasn't confessed.”

“That's because we haven't tried hard enough yet,” Gore argued. He reached down and grabbed Sam by the collar, yanking Sam to his feet. The DI staggered and nearly fell into Gore. Gore spun him around and shoved him up against the wall.

Hot anger flooded Gene's body and soul.“Gore, let him go.” His voice emerged low and dangerous.

“He's guilty, Hunt,” Gore insisted, staring at Sam with a hatred that shocked Gene. “Guilty!” He slammed Sam against the wall.

Sam winced, but didn't make a sound this time, didn't plead for his Guv's help.

He's given up, Gene thought with a twinge. He took a step toward Gore.

“This is my case as well as yours, Hunt,” Gore snapped at him over his shoulder. “I can do as I like.” He rammed his knee upward into Sam's gut, then let the DI fall.

Sam collapsed to his knees, arms wrapped around himself as he gasped and choked.

Gore moved to stand behind him, then kicked Sam hard in the back, knocking him to the ground.

Gene momentarily considered murder himself. Murder of Gore.

“You get in my way, Hunt, and I'll have you arrested, too,” Gore threatened. “For obstruction of justice.” He smiled coldly. “It would be rather fitting, wouldn't it? I've never really liked you. And I like your DI even less.” He looked down to where Sam was dragging himself across the ground, dragging himself toward Gene.

It took all of Gene's self control to keep from scooping Sam up in his arms and carrying him out of there. But he knew that he had to be rational. Had to stay calm. Had to think like Sam. Otherwise, they'd all be in trouble. And locked up in a cell, he'd be of no use to his battered DI.

Rational, Hunt. Be rational. Think--

“Gene.”

The broken, painful voice saying his name violently interrupted Gene's thoughts.

“Sam.” He knelt in front of his DI, who had made it to him, who was lying at his feet.

“Hunt--” Gore started.

“Shut up!” Gene shouted. Swearing ferociously, he stood and crossed the room, giving Gore a satisfyingly hard shove that knocked him back against the door. “And stay back, for heaven's sake!” He turned all of his attention to Sam, hurrying back to the beaten man's side. “Sam, are you gonna make it?”

Sam ignored the question, forcing himself up off the floor, lifting himself painfully into a kneel. He met Gene's eyes unwaveringly. “I didn't do it, Gene.”

And Gene instantly believed him. Sam swayed, and Gene reached out to steady him. He gave him a quick, reassuring smile, then glared past him at Gore. “Afton Gore, I am placing Sam Tyler under house arrest.”

Gore blinked, still rubbing his chest where Gene had shoved him. “Excuse me? What?”

“You heard me, you tosser,” Gene shot back. “I'm placing him under house arrest. I can't leave him here at the station for fear of police brutality.” He spat out the words. “I'll be putting him under my watch and under the watch of my people. I've seen tonight that I can't trust you and yours.”

Gore's jaw dropped. He worked his lips as if to say something, then thought better of it and quickly shut them. He nodded shortly.

“Does that mean we can go home?” Babbin asked from the corner, yawning.

Gene resisted the urge to stamp the man out of existence, thus saving the world from his overpowering stupidity. “Yes. Fine. Go home if you like. Just don't trouble me with any more of your crap.”

“I feel sick, Guv,” Sam said quietly, pressing his hands to his stomach.

“I know, Sammy. I know. Just hang in there,” Gene told him quietly. He realized, with a wince, that his hands were the only things holding Sam up. He looked up at Gore, rage seething through his veins. “I want you to get out of my sight. I don't want to see you again tonight. And I don't want you running and reporting me to our superiors, neither.”

“But--” Gore started unwisely.

“But nothin',” Gene snapped. “You've naught to report. I'm placing a murder suspect under house arrest. You can't criticize that. Now go. Get out.”

“But--”

“Get OUT!” Gene's shout echoed through lost and found and could probably be heard throughout CID.

Gore scuttled out of the room, and Babbin followed, seeming as lost and foolish as he usually did.

Gene sighed and turned his attention back to his DI. “Now, Sam--”

Sam lurched forward and started heaving.

Gene turned his head, wincing as he listened to the younger man vomit.

“'M sorry,” Sam muttered when he was finished puking up his dinner. “I'll clean it up, Guv.”

“Oh, shut it, Gladys. Yer not in any shape to be cleanin'.”

Sam simply nodded, and Gene felt a twinge of worry. The lad must have taken a heavy beating indeed to have all the defiance and sarcasm knocked out of him.

The door to lost and found swung open, and Annie, Chris and Ray came rushing in, practically tripping  
over each other.

“Guv, what—what's happening?” Annie burst out, sounding near to tears.

“Nothin' we can't solve, Cartwright.”

“You okay, Boss?” Chris asked Sam, taking a step further into the room.

Sam didn't reply or meet Chris's worried gaze. He merely nodded, shoulders hunched, tremors racking his body.

“Was it that thug Gore or that moron Babbin?” Ray asked darkly. “Want me to punch 'em up, Guv?”

“Not yet, Raymondo, but soon,” Gene assured him. “For now, I need someone to go fetch us a plonk to clean up this mess. Christopher, that someone is you.”

“Yes, Guv.” Chris hurried to obey.

Annie came to kneel beside her DI and DCI. “What's going on, Guv?” she asked quietly, eyes wide and scared.

“Tyler's been accused of murder,” Gene told her wearily. “And Gore and Babbin just tried to beat a confession out of him.”

Annie frowned. “But—but... Sam would never, Guv. He would never--”

“I know,” Gene cut her off, not wanting to deal with this right now. He looked to his DS. “Ray, come help me get him to his feet.”

“Yes, Guv.”

Gene and Ray supported Sam on either side and lifted him to his feet. The DI's breath hitched, and he manfully bit back a cry of pain. “You're okay, Sam,” Gene told him. “We'll get you home.”

“Home? What's going on, Guv?” Ray asked, frowning.

“I'm placing him under house arrest,” Gene explained quickly. “At my house.”

“Your house?” Annie asked incredulously. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I'm serious,” Gene snapped. “Sam is innocent. I won't have them beating him to death.”

“Then why didn't you stop them the first time they tried?” she asked hotly.

Gene glared at her, but he was really mad at himself—mad that he hadn't stopped them, mad that he hadn't believed Sam at first.

“'S okay,” Sam breathed shakily, lifting his head with apparent effort to smile at Annie. “The Guv waded in and saved me in time.”

Gene hoped to God it was in time. Sam was in no good shape. Not at all.

“Oh, Sam.” Annie gently touched the DI's face. “You're burnin' up. What can we do to make you feel better?”

“We can get him to my house, for starters,” Gene interrupted gruffly, uncomfortable with the sudden sappiness. “Ray, help me get him to the Cortina.”


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two

Gene moved around the Cortina at faster than normal speed to open the passenger side door. The drive to his house had been harrowing. He had felt sick to his stomach as he listened to Sam's labored breathing, glancing sideways every once in a while to see Sam shivering and clenching up against the pain. Until that awful drive, Gene did not realize how much he could miss hearing Sam's smart-alecky mouth run.

He jerked open the door, impatient to get to the injured man. “How are you holdin' up, Sam?” he asked softly as he reached into the car to help his DI sit up.

“Not so good, Guv,” Sam replied with endearing honesty. He hunched forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

“You gonna puke again?” Gene asked, leaning back a bit.

Sam shook his head. “Don't think so,” he muttered.

“A'right. Then let's get movin'.” Gene slid an arm around Sam and helped the younger man to his feet.

“You sure this is alright?” Sam asked, his voice breathless and shaky. “You sure it's not--?”

“The missus won't mind,” Gene cut him off. He kicked the door closed behind them, and practically carried Sam across the garage to the door. “She's probably bored, anyway. Havin' you around to look after might liven things up for her.”

Gene hauled Sam inside the door and hollered, “Alice! I'm home!”

“It's awfully late, Gene Hunt!” his wife called back. He could hear her footsteps grow nearer. “Why didn't you call?”

“There was a bit of an emergency, luv.” Gene dragged Sam across the dark living room to the couch, where he gently eased him down. “I hope you don't mind, but we've got company staying tonight.” He neglected to add that Sam would probably be there for a few nights to come, as well.

His wife stood in the doorway between living room and kitchen, studying him carefully, her arms crossed over her chest. “One of your men?”

“Yeh. DI Tyler,” Gene explained. “Be a dear and flip on the light. He's not in very good shape.”

The light flickered on, and Gene bent over Sam, worry clenching at his insides.

Sam's eyes were half closed, his mouth half opened to drag in air in what seemed to be a painful and difficult process. The red welt on his cheek stood out starkly against the paleness of his skin. One hand fluttered convulsively over his stomach.

Gene winced. “Alice, go get me some wet rags. He's been beat up, this one.”

“Sorry—s-sorry to be an inconvenience,” Sam said, lifting his head and smiling weakly at Alice.

The gesture was so polite, so Sam... Gene felt his throat tighten.

“No. No problem at all,” Alice replied. She turned and hurried into the kitchen.

“You best relax, Sammy-boy,” Gene cautioned his DI. “Don't you trouble yerself.”

Sam let his head drop to the sofa, eyes sliding closed.

Gene began to gently undo the buttons of Sam's pinstripe shirt. Strangely, it bothered him how rumpled the shirt was, the shirt that was normally perfectly pressed. He supposed, with a touch of bitterness, that multiple blows from meaty fists and hard boots would do that to a shirt. The sight of the bruises spread across Sam's skin made Gene's blood run hot. He wanted to kill Gore and Babbin for this.

“Heh. Wouldn't that be funny, Sam?” he muttered. “If I killed Gore and Babbin, we'd both be in trouble for murder.”

“Hmm.” A slight smile curved Sam's lips, followed by a frown. “Don't do it, Guv,” he whispered. “Don't get in trouble.”

Before Gene could reply, Alice returned carrying a bowl of water and wash cloths, along with a small leather bag. She gasped softly at the sight of the dark bruises blooming all over Sam's torso. “What happened to him?”

“Got himself accused of murder, Sam did,” Gene answered simply. He took one of the cloths from her and dipped it in the bowl of cool water. Very gently, he placed the rag across a particularly nasty-looking bruise on Sam's ribs.

The DI flinched and groaned.

“Easy, Sam. We're just tryin' to help yeh,” Gene assured him.

Sam bit his lip and nodded his understanding. “Just... hurts,” he murmured.

The tightness in his throat was back, and Gene had to swallow it down. “We'll fix that. Don't you worry.” Together, he and Alice pressed the cool cloths atop Sam's deep bruises.

Gene noticed that Sam jerked any time his hands brushed against one of the skinny DI's ribs. He wondered, worriedly, if any of the ribs were broken. But what could he do about that? Even doctors couldn't do much for broken ribs. They just taped them up and sent you home with a warning not to move around much... Gene knew that from experience.

“I think his temperature is down some,” Alice said softly, feeling Sam's forehead after the poor lad had finally fallen asleep. “That's good.”

Gene sat back on his heels, watching Sam's face smooth in sleep, watching the pain-drawn lines fade somewhat. Good. Definitely good. He nodded. “Yeah.” He turned and met his wife's questioning eyes. “Technically, he's under house arrest. But not—not really.”

Alice crossed her arms. “What's going on, Gene?”

“I'll tell you later, luv.” He turned back to Sam, watched with deep guilt as the DI's chest rose and fell unevenly, listened with the same guilt as the breath entered and exited Sam's lungs raggedly.

“He'll be alright.” Alice's hand rested lightly on Gene's shoulder. “We'll make sure of that.” She stood, and with a quiet wisdom, turned off the living room light and returned to sit silently beside her husband.

Sam murmured something in his sleep and reached out. Gene caught his trembling hand and squeezed it. “It's okay, Sam. The Gene Genie's lookin' after yeh.”

“Don't—don't leave me,” Sam pleaded, still unconscious, but perhaps sensing his Guv's presence.

“I won't,” Gene told him softly, honestly.

And so they stayed by Sam's side all night. Alice fell asleep first, slumping against Gene's shoulder. Gene finally drifted off to sleep past midnight, one arm around his wife, the other hand still holding onto Sam.

 

The first thing Sam noticed when he awoke was the pain. Wicked, cramp-like pain blasted through his body, originating in his stomach and ribs and spreading outward. He groaned, instinctively drawing up his knees...

...which led him to notice something else. He wasn't lying on his creaky camp bed. No springs were poking him in his aching back.

Where am I? ...And when am I?

“You still with us, Tyler? Tougher than I thought.”

Gene Hunt's voice brought everything back to Sam, and he groaned again at the memory. He had been accused of murder. He had been beaten nearly to death by Gore and Babbin. And he had just slept on Gene's couch. Not really sure what to say, Sam slowly opened his eyes, his vision greeted by the sight of Gene staring down at him, accompanied by a lady with dark hair and concerned eyes. Gene's wife, Alice.

“Good morning,” Sam croaked. His ribs screamed in protest at the effort of speaking.

“Mornin', Gladys. Sleep well?” Gene asked. His voice was teasing, casual, but Sam had seen the worry in his eyes last night.

“Guess so.” Sam closed his eyes, trying not to wince too obviously as his abused stomach muscles clenched painfully. “'M I still under arrest?” he asked, his voice breathless from the exertion of fighting the pain.

“Afraid so, Sammy,” Gene told him quietly. Low, dangerous tones tinged his voice. “But don't you worry. I know yer innocent.”

“Good.” Sam smiled a bit, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from him. Sure, being beat up was painful, but what had hurt more was seeing the mistrust in Gene's eyes, the doubt. “Do the others—Do they know?”

“Yeh. They know some,” Gene said. “And they believe in you, too.”

“Hmm. Even Ray?”

“Even Ray.” Gene cleared his throat, seeming suddenly uncomfortable.

“Good.” Sam's smile widened, which caused his cheekbone to ache a bit. Oh well.

“Think you can eat anything, dear?” asked Alice.

Sam opened his eyes and looked up at the woman who had been brave enough to marry Gene Hunt. He considered her question. “I feel... hungry. I suppose I could try. I don't—I don't want to impose. I'll pay you for--”

“Oh, shut up, Tyler,” Gene snapped, rolling his eyes. “Yer not payin' for anythin'. Yer under house arrest. CID will compensate us.”

“Oh. Right.” Sam felt a little less guilty then. He smiled at Alice, whom he had yet to see smile herself. “Then, yes. I'd like something to eat if you don't mind.” He grimaced. “Don't know if I can keep it down.”

“You poor boy.” Alice shook her head. “I'll make you some porridge.” She turned and headed out of the room, leaving Gene and Sam alone.

“I'll have to go to work here in a bit,” Gene said quietly, sitting on the sofa by Sam's knees. He clasped his hands together, leaning forward and not looking at Sam. “You'll be safe here, I hope. I'll send someone by to check on you later. Might come myself.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “Alice ain't one of my men, but she'll do as a temporary copper. I'll list her as your warden.”

“Can you do that?” Sam asked, looking askance at his DCI.

“We'll find out today,” Gene replied. He reached back to awkwardly pat Sam's knee. “You relax and don't try anythin' with me wife.”

“Course not, Guv.” Sam grinned.

Gene stood and walked toward the door, camel hair coat swinging around him. “Alice, don't you let him die on us,” he called to his wife.

“Gene Hunt, get over yourself!” she shot back. “You're not the only one who can do a good job around here! That poor boy is going to get better—and fast—if I have anything to do with it.”

Gene rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Right. And behave!” And with that, he was out the door.

Sam closed his eyes, weariness washing over him with the pain. He found himself unable to hold back a moan and that upset him. He didn't need to be lying around moaning. He needed to be out on the streets solving the murder of which he had been accused!

“Poor little luv.” A cool rag was draped over his forehead. “I'll wager this was Gene's fault in some way.”

Sam opened his eyes and looked up at Alice. “No, not at all,” he assured her. His lips curved sideways. “At least, not this time.”

Alice sighed and rolled her eyes as she knelt beside the sofa, carefully balancing a steaming bowl of porridge. “He's naught but trouble, my husband.” But there was a deep affection in her voice.

“So I've learned.” Sam studied Alice carefully, wondering just what sort of woman Gene had married. She seemed intelligent, capable... and a bit intense. “Thank-you,” he told her impulsively, warmly. “Thank-you for looking after me.”

“It's no trouble at all,” Alice replied calmly. She set the bowl down on the coffee table. “Think you can sit up on your own?”

“I can try.” Sam took a deep breath—which caused his ribs to sting—and bent his elbows under him. He started to push himself up, but that hurt so very badly that he had to stop and catch his breath again. He realized, embarrassed, that his breathing was laced with involuntary whimpers of pain.

“Oh, God. Don't die on me, DI Tyler.” Alice slid a strong arm behind his shoulders and lifted him slowly into a sitting position, quickly sliding a soft pillow behind his back.

Sam relaxed back against the pillow, holding his breath to keep from crying out at the pain ripping through his body. He pressed a trembling hand against his bruised stomach, but that didn't seem to help at all.

Alice sighed and leaned back on her heels, hands on her hips. “You need a doctor,” she said quietly.

“No.” Sam shook his head. His whole body was shaking, and he could feel a sweat breaking out on his face. “Doctors nowadays can't do anything for this. It's just—just some deep bruising, cracked ribs... What's a doctor going to do?”

“Prescribe some pain medication for one thing,” Alice answered. “Wouldn't you like that?”

“No. Nothing strong.” Sam shook his head again. “I need to be in full control of myself. I've got to—got to help Gene figure this out.”

Alice narrowed her eyes on him. “Gene's complained about how stubborn you are. Until now, I thought he was exaggerating.”

Sam grinned, but before he could say anything, Alice held up the bowl of porridge. “Now hush and open your mouth,” she ordered, sounding strangely like her husband. “I'm going to get you well whether you like it or not.”


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three

As soon as Gene entered CID, Annie started following him. Somehow, he had known that she would. Before she could ask, Gene held up a hand and said, “He's okay, Cartwright. He's surviving.”

“Oh. Good.” She linked her fingers together in front of her, looking like a lost child without Sam there. “Guv, what are we gonna do? I know he didn't do it. He didn't kill that man.”

“I know, luv. Don't get yer knickers in a twist.” Gene walked into his office with Annie on his heels. “Shut the door behind you,” he ordered.

Annie nodded, and with a quiet “yes, Guv,” closed the office door. She turned to face him, then, her large eyes full of pleading.

Gene's stomach twisted at the look on her face. But he couldn't show that. “Gore or Babbin shown their ugly mugs yet?”

“No, sir. Not yet.”

“Good.” Gene whipped a cigarette out of one of his drawers and lit it. “Anyone lookin' at the evidence?”

Annie nodded. “Yeah. Chris.” She managed a brave smile. “Ray's been runnin' things right well this mornin.' Never thought I'd hear myself say that.”

Gene took a drag of tobacco smoke. The familiar taste and smell instantly soothed his frazzled nerves. “Good for Ray. Heard anything from anyone higher up?”

“No, Guv.”

“Well fill out all the necessary paperwork for me naming Tyler my personal prisoner,” Gene told her. “Then we'll see what we can do with this evidence.”

“Yes, Guv.” Annie turned and started toward the door, then hesitated and turned. “Sam wouldn't want us to... cheat for him, you know. He'd want everything done right.”

“Do I look like that halfwit Babbin?” Gene snapped. “I know what Sam would want. But that's not what matters, is it, Cartwright? What matters is getting him out of this mess, so snap to it!”

Annie pressed her lips together, wisely not pushing the matter. She turned the door handle.

Gene sighed. “And you don't have to whine about it. We'll be doin' this right, all of it. This has to be watertight. Sam's innocent, and somewhere out there is the evidence to prove it.”

Annie smiled briefly. “Yes, sir.” She slipped out of the office, leaning Gene alone with his thoughts.

He had never really liked being alone with his thoughts. Quickly, he checked his desk for more messages, then hurried out of the office.

 

It wasn't right, the Boss not being there. Chris folded the smudged piece of paper on his desk into the shape of a paper airplane as he reflected on how wrong it felt not having the Boss there to tell him to stop fooling around and get to work. Of course, the Boss would then feel bad about being sharp with him and would say something nice, give him some advice about girls...

“Stop poutin', Chris, and get to work,” Ray snapped from beside him.

Chris glanced at Ray, who was glaring at him. “What work am I s'posed to be getting to?” he wondered aloud. “We've got naught but this one case to work on. And we've got nothin'! Nothin' 'cept what points to the Boss.”

Ray rolled his eyes. “The Boss didn't do it,” he said firmly.

Chris knew Ray didn't particularly like Sam. He also knew that Sam had slowly gained Ray's respect. He supposed you didn't actually have to like a person in order to respect them... “Well how are we gonna prove that?”

“Not by mopin' about,” Ray told him, waving his cigarette in Chris's direction. “Now you get to work on that paperwork like the Guv said.”

Chris sighed and put down the paper airplane, picking up the stack of paperwork from the Boardman case instead. He despaired at finding anything useful there to help Sam. He knew, just like Ray and Annie and the Guv, that the Boss was innocent. But he didn't think the answer to helping Sam would be found in the paperwork from the case.

With a chill, Chris thought about why the evidence might point so forcefully at the DI. Someone must have it out for him...

“Read, Chris!” Ray ordered.

Chris shook himself—physically and mentally—and started skimming the paperwork. If only Sam could see them now, all working together on the same thing, all completely focused—even Ray. It was almost enough to make Chris smile. Then he remembered how pale the Boss had looked, shivering and swaying on his knees, with only the Guv keeping him from falling into his own puke...

That was almost enough to make Chris cry.

 

This was it, the big piece of evidence that planted Sam at the scene of the crime, at the time of the crime. Annie held up the bag and frowned angrily at the bloody shirt inside it. It did, indeed, look like one of Sam's shirts—white, with vertical tan stripes. And it was his size, small. And it had been found in one of his drawers.

The blood covering it matched the blood of the victim.

“How are we gonna get you out of this one, Sam?” Annie murmured as she set the bag on her desk. She had been there when the evidence was processed—the bloody shirt, the picture of the boot print (which matched Sam's shoe size), the ink pen found at the crime scene and the cigarette ashes.

That one piece of physical evidence did not point at Sam. Sam didn't smoke. She had said that to Gore and Babbin, and they had ignored this. They had kept asking her, “Do you know anyone who wears a shirt like this? Wears boots like that? Carries an ink pen on a regular basis?”

They had been brought it on the case because a fifth and damning piece of evidence indicated that someone in CID, in Gene Hunt's department, had committed the crime. A scrap of paper with CID's seal had been found beneath Robert Boardman's bludgeoned body. Smudged and small, it had yet revealed Gene's name... and it appeared to be written in Sam's handwriting.

That piece of paper had led Gore and Babbin to search the homes of Gene's team. They had first searched Gene's house, then Sam's. And there they had found the shirt. Sam had protested strongly, insisting on his innocence.

At first, Annie had not been worried. Of course Sam wouldn't have killed anyone. They would find out that it was all a mistake. When he was brought in for questioning, she didn't think any bad would come of it, only good. They would remember the cigarette ash; they would find some other piece of evidence pointing away from Sam...

It had been Chris's idea to check on lost and found. He had a bad feeling about things, he said. So they had walked down the hall together, followed by Ray, who was rolling his eyes and telling them to leave be. He had stopped saying that when they heard the sounds of violence coming from the room. Then they had all stood there silently, meeting each other's wide and worried eyes.

When they heard the Guv shouting, Annie had wanted to go in, to stop whatever was happening. Ray had insisted that they stay back and let Gene handle it. Which they did.

And then, when Gore and Babbin stalked out of the room, looking angry and flustered, they had all three rushed in, only to see the Guv keeping Sam from collapsing, and Sam trembling and sweating and trying to smile at her, trying to reassure her.

Annie had been angry and frightened. She still was. She wanted so badly to rush to Gene's house and find Sam and hug him and comfort him and tell him that she believed in him, that she had never doubted him, that they would find who had really done this...

But she couldn't now. Not yet. She had to find evidence that accused someone else, anyone else but Sam.

The bullpen was so quiet. Chris had his head bent over paperwork from the case. Ray was sifting through various objects found at the crime scene that had not been considered evidence before. And the Guv was staring at the cigarette ash and the scrap of paper with his name on it, his name written by Sam's hand.

It was too quiet. Annie figured the Guv would speak first, and she was right.

 

“Right.” Gene stood up and looked at his team, making sure he had everyone's attention. “You lot, I want you to start focusin' on our dead man. I want you to dig deep and find out everything you can about this bloke—who his friends were, who his enemies were, if he had a lover, where he liked to get drunk and what he liked to eat for breakfast. All of it. I want it found out.”

They were all staring at him. Ray was nodding and chewing his gum, Chris looked confused and Annie looked concerned. The others were all wearing similar expressions.

“Oi! What're you starin' at? You want to solve this case don't ya? Then get a move on!” He clapped his hands together, and everyone jumped, then went into motion.

They all knew what to do. They knew the procedure for digging into someone's background. Coats and hats were grabbed, and a few men slipped out the door to go asking around town about Robert Boardman. Ray called Chris over to help him look through the victim's belongings, and Annie hurried to a file cabinet to search for more paperwork—not only about the case, but about their victim's past.

Gene felt a moment of intense pride in his team, but he didn't allow himself to enjoy it for long. He had to get to work, too. He had a case to solve. And if he didn't solve it quick, his DI was going to pay the price.


	4. Chapter 4

Part Four

“What do you think you're trying to do?”

Chagrined and a bit irritated, Sam glanced toward the kitchen door to see Alice standing akimbo, frowning at him. Damn. I thought she would be longer in cleaning the dishes. “I'm just... I only need...” He sighed and quickly thought up an excuse—this one brought about by actual need. “I need to use your restroom, if you don't mind.”

His voice was ridiculously hoarse, and standing on his feet, he was weaving this way and that like a drunken man. Drunk on pain, he supposed. That ever-present pain.

“Why didn't you say so?” Alice sighed with an air of resignation. “Come on. I'll help you there.” She crossed the living room floor and looped her arm through his.

A sudden, horrifying thought came to Sam. “Just—just take me there. I can—I can do the rest alone.”

Alice made a soft sound. He thought it was a laugh, but he wasn't sure. “Good.” She helped Sam down the hall to a narrow door on the right. “You're still too warm, Sam. We need to work on this fever, and that means rest.”

“Yes. Yes, I know,” Sam murmured, suddenly dizzy and nauseated from his walk down the hall. He staggered into the bathroom, using the wall and then the counter for support. Sharp twinges of pain clenched his stomach, and he was trying very hard not to think of the words “internal injuries.” Instead, he concentrated on a new plan to carry out what he had been trying to do earlier—get to a phone. He had a suspicion, and he wanted to find out if it were true.

It could save him from being convicted of murder.

 

Alice washed a few more dishes, then poured herself a hot mug of tea. She was a bit weary today, mostly on the inside. Worry for her husband and for this injured friend of his was wearing her out. She sighed and closed her eyes, letting the hot liquid slowly pour down her throat and warm it... Her eyes flew open as soon as she realized that she had forgotten Sam! She was so used to being at home alone...

Swearing, she set down her tea mug and rushed out of the kitchen, across the living room and into the hall. An ominously familiar sound greeted her as she stopped at the bathroom door. It was a sound she had heard many times before, after Gene had drunk a bit too much. Wincing, she knocked on the door. “Sam? Are you okay in there?”

The pitiful sound of more retching was her only reply.

“Sam?” Alice started to turn the doorknob. “Sam, I'm coming in.” She quickly opened the door and slipped inside, grimacing at the sight that greeted her.

The DI was bowed over the toilet bowl, clutching it with both arms, as if for dear life. His slender little body was shuddering and convulsing with dry heaves. He looked up at her, face pale, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. “I've got—I've got nothing left,” he gasped out, then turned back to the bowl and started hacking again.

“Oh, sweetie.” Alice's heart went out to him. She hurried to wet a washcloth and moved to kneel beside him, draping the cool cloth over the back of his neck. Then she sat back from him, allowing him his space and privacy. She had never liked being touched while she was throwing up, and she figured the sick DI was probably the same way.

After a few agonizing minutes, Sam turned to her with a wan smile. “Thank—thank-you,” he stammered. He reached with a shaky arm to flush the toilet, then very politely closed the lid. “I'm sorry.” He blushed a bit, then, looking away from her and finally resting his head on the toilet lid.

Alice was glad she had let Gene talk her into buying that hideous brown lid cover. At least it was soft. “You need a doctor,” she told the sick man firmly.

“No.” Sam shook his head where it rested on the toilet lid. “No doctor. I don't—I don't think I have internal injuries.”

Alice's eyebrows rose. “Oh really? Is that why you're bent over a toilet puking up your guts?”

“That's just the thing,” said Sam with what could only be described as a smirk. “I didn't puke up my guts. No guts. No blood. Just dinner.”

“Well that's good.” Some of Alice's worries settled a bit at that. “Still...” She resisted the urge to start biting her nails. She didn't want this lad dying on her. For one thing, he was Gene's friend, one of Gene's team. And for another thing... He seemed like a very nice young man. “Do you think you can stand?”

“I can try.” Sam pushed himself up by leaning his trembling arms on the toilet, his breath coming in short, jerky pants.

Alice hurried to his side and helped him, her worries rising again at the feel of heat emanating from his body. “Let's get you back to the couch.” She draped his arm across her shoulders and supported him into the hall. Before they could reach the living room, Sam's breath left him in a hitched moan, and he leaned heavily against Alice.

“Sam?” She turned so that she could see him better.

He was blinking rapidly, his lips pressed tightly together.

“Sam!” Alice shook him gently, careful not to touch his stomach or ribs. She reached to feel the pulse beating at the base of his throat, and her own pulse began to race when she felt how fast it was. “Sam, you have to calm down and breathe.”

Very carefully, she helped him lower himself to the floor. She took the cool cloth from his neck and began mopping at his face. His breaths came erratically, raggedly, and with each one, his body tensed. Must be his ribs hurting him, she surmised. She winced as she realized that he had probably hurt them worse with all that horrible dry heaving.

“I know it hurts, luv, but you have to breathe,” Alice cooed, forcing herself to remain calm. “You have to breathe.”

Sam nodded, but still struggled with his breath, head thrown back, hands clenching at the thick carpet.

Alice felt helpless. Tears of frustration threatened to spring to her eyes, but she fought them back down. “Come on, Sam,” she pleaded. “Come on.”

The front door burst open with a volume only one person could manage. Alice felt like shouting with relief. In fact, she did. “Gene!” she called. “Gene, I need you!”

As much as she hated to admit it. Oh well. He could tease her about it later. For now, they needed to work together to keep his DI from dying.

Gene came sweeping into the hall, his camel hair coat whipping around him. “Oi! What's the matter?”

“I can't—He's not breathing well. He was throwing up earlier, and I think he hurt his ribs worse.” The words came out in a desperate tumble.

“Oi! Tyler!” Gene knelt beside his wife and wounded DI. “You've got to keep breathin', you div. D'you hear me? This is your DCI speaking.”

 

Sam looked up, looked toward the sound of Gene's voice. That strong, familiar voice cut through his panic at struggling to breathe. “Gene!” he coughed out. Fingers of fire seemed to be ripping at his ribcage. His eyes watered at the pain. “I'm trying, Guv.”

“You keep tryin', Sammy.” Gene reached out and placed a surprisingly gentle hand on Sam's shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

Sam instinctively leaned into Gene's hand, relying on the strength that was his DCI. He would regret it later, he was sure, and he hated that his superior—his friend—had to see him in such a pathetic state, but for now... He had to draw on whatever strength he could.

“You do yer job, Tyler. Keep breathin'. That's it.”

Gene's hand gently pressed his shoulder, while Alice softly touched his forehead with a refreshingly cool cloth.

Sam dragged in a gulp of air, and in spite of the twinges in his ribs, it made him feel instantly better.

“That's it, Sammy. Keep goin' like that.”

In. Out. In. Out. In. Ouch!

“We've got to get him to a doctor, Gene. His ribs are broken, and he's sick.”

Another deep breath. Another.

“He's under house arrest, Alice. We'll have to bring a doctor here.”

Tired, suddenly so tired...

“Fine. We'll do it. We have to do something. I don't want this man to die in my house.”

“Hell, I don't want him to die anywhere.”

That's nice of you, Guv.

“You okay now, Sam?”

Sam opened his eyes. He hadn't realized they were closed. “Yeah.” He nodded, panting and worn. “Think so.”

“Come on. Let's get you to bed.”

“To sofa, you mean.” He smiled at that, proud of his wit in spite of injury.

Gene and Alice exchanged a glance, then hurried to gently help him up. He couldn't exactly find his balance, so Gene picked him up like a child and carried him into the living room, followed closely by Alice.

As Gene carefully set him down on the couch, Sam remembered something—something important. “Guv.” He swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Guv, there's something I have to tell you.”

“Save it, Tyler, and get some rest,” Gene ordered. He motioned to Alice, and she brought a blanket, which they draped over their guest.

Sam frowned, frustrated. “Guv, listen to me. It's about the case!” His own fervor was tiring him—and fast.

“Don't get yerself all worked up. You'll hurt yerself again,” Gene cautioned. Then, as if finally realized what Sam had said, he asked, “What? What did you say, Sam?”

“I think I've got a lead,” Sam told him, fighting the sleep that was trying to overtake him.

“A lead?” Gene was all ears now.

“That man... The man outside the restaurant...” Sam couldn't hold on any longer, and sleep won its battle.


	5. Chapter 5

Part Five

Alice felt a bit traumatized by the events of the day, but she was trying not to show it. She sat in her favorite easy chair, legs tucked beneath her, robe wrapped around her, cup of tea in her hands. “This isn't very easy, Gene,” she told him quietly.

Gene sat perched on the edge of the couch, watching Sam, who slept restlessly. “I know, luv. But this is how it's gonna be.”

“I'm not—I'm not complaining,” Alice assured him hurriedly. “It's just...” She sighed. “We've got to find out who killed that man—and fast. If Sam Tyler goes to jail in the state he's in, he won't last for long. We have to stop that from happening.”

Gene turned to her with one eyebrow raised. “We? So it's we now, is it?”

Alice raised an eyebrow right back. “I was on my way to being named a DI before I married you, Gene Hunt, in case you've forgotten.”

“I haven't forgotten,” Gene admitted with a grunt.

“I can help you with this case. Please let me.” She fixed him with a serious gaze.

Gene stared back at her, then finally sighed. “Fine. But me gut instinct says there's something dangerous about this case, something... Well, for lack of a better word, something evil. Just look at poor Sam. Someone wanted him hurt like that.” His green eyes slid toward his sick and injured DI. “As a matter of fact, I think someone wanted him dead.”

“I'll be careful, Gene. I always am,” Alice assured him, instantly understanding. He was worried about her. He didn't want her hurt.

Gene looked back at her and smiled a bit. “I know you are.”

They were quiet for a moment, then Alice glanced at Sam. “I wonder what he was trying to tell us before he passed out. It sounded important.”

“We'll wait until he wakes up to find out,” Gene said quietly, and Alice was, not for the first time, stricken by how much care he had for DI Sam Tyler. Gene was rough around the edges, the type of man to demand answers from someone, regardless of their state. Sam must have, like Alice, found away to reach through the roughness and the toughness and brush against that soft, warm part of Gene, Alice's favorite part of Gene.

“Alright,” she replied softly, watching him as he watched Sam. He looked at the younger man with deep concern and a touch of curiosity. Alice smiled. Gene had made a friend.

Sam murmured something feverishly in his sleep, and Alice's smile faded. She hoped to God that Gene wouldn't have to lose that friend.

 

It was after hours, but Annie didn't care. She was onto something, she was sure of it. In the paperwork about Robert Boardman, she had run across a minor incident involving Boardman and a couple who lived in a flat three doors down from his. Apparently, there had been some sort of disagreement as to the ownership of a dog.

It could be nothing. But it could be something.

The sun was setting, and the wind bit at Annie's cheeks and nose with a sharp chill. She shivered and tightened her brown jacket around her shoulders as she walked up to the blue door of the flat belonging to George and Wanda Tudor. She took a deep breath, breathed a prayer and knocked softly on the door.

“I'll get it!” came a woman's yell from inside the flat.

Annie stepped back as the door quickly swung inward to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered woman wearing very strong perfume. The WDC fought the urge to sneeze. “Mrs. Tudor?”

“Yes. I'm Wanda.” Wanda Tudor was middle-aged, perhaps close to fifty, with curly, reddish-brown hair that fell just to her shoulders. Her face was weathered, her voice deep and hearty. Here was an active woman, formidable, Annie thought.

“I'm WDC Cartwright from CID.” Annie showed the woman her identification, vowing not to be intimidated. “I'm in the neighborhood asking questions about the murder of Robert Boardman.”

“Yes? What about it?” Wanda crossed her arms and leaned against the wall of her foyer. She spoke quickly, with an air of disinterest, but Annie detected a note of irritation in the older woman's voice.

“Well, I was wondering what you could tell me about Mr. Boardman,” she explained. “And I like to ask you about what you heard and saw the night he died.” She glanced past Wanda's solid frame. “May I come in? I need to speak with your husband, as well.”

Wanda narrowed her eyes on Annie for a moment, then finally nodded. “Oh, alright. Come on inside.” She motioned with a long, strong arm, and the female officer stepped into the foyer. As she had expected from her initial impression of Wanda, the flat was neat and sparse.

“The police have already been by,” Wanda groused, leading Annie into a small parlor that was done up in varying shades of brown. “We've answered a dozen questions or more already.” Before Annie could reply to this, Wanda shouted in booming tones, “Geo-orge! A policewoman is here to question us!”

Annie winced, her ears ringing. “I'm not here to bother you, Mrs.--”

“Wanda,” the other woman cut her off firmly.

“Wanda.” Annie met Wanda's eyes squarely. “I'm just following up on some new leads.”

“Leads that lead to my husband and myself?” Wanda asked.

“Not necessarily,” Annie replied evasively.

A short, stooping man with gray hair and a thin mustache shuffled into the room looking sleepy. Annie instantly pitied him. “Yes, Wanda? What is it?”

Wanda nodded tersely in Annie's direction. “This girl would like to ask us more questions about the Boardman case.”

Annie offered the little gray man an encouraging smile.

“Ah. Boardman.” George plopped onto the nearby sofa—brown, of course. “He was a lonely chap, I think. But sometimes I think he liked being alone, enjoyed being... lonely.” He sighed dramatically. “Makes me regret what we did about the dog...”

Annie's ears perked up. “About the dog?” She held her pen poised over her notepad. “Do you care to explain?”

“Careful, George,” Wanda snapped, glaring at her husband.

Annoyed at the domineering woman, Annie moved herself subtly in between the pair and looked at George with eager eyes.

George rolled his eyes at Wanda and continued with his story, smiling at Annie. “There was a dog, a stray, and we took turns feeding it—us and him. It had to happen one day.” He sighed again. “We fought over who should bring it in in the winter. And we won. I know I said the man liked being alone, but he was so alone. And we didn't even let him have the dog.”

“Oh, George, it's not like we were cruel to the man,” Wanda cut in. “He was the one who was very nasty about the whole affair. He--” She halted her tirade, glancing in Annie's direction with wide and suddenly wary eyes. “Well. He was not very nice about the dog,” she finished in a quieter voice.

“Ah. I see.” Annie looked from Wanda to George and back again. And she wondered...

 

Chris was getting ready for bed when he remembered.

The Boss had been onto something the night of Robert Boardman's murder. He had told Chris as much. And that was why had hadn't been at the pub that night. That was why he had been at that fancy restaurant a few blocks down, by himself.

Chris had wondered why Sam was going there alone. It was the kind of place a chap took a bird. So he had asked, and Sam had mentioned, casually, that he was looking into something, something to do with another case...

But which case? Sam hadn't said. He had seemed distracted that whole day, his mind apparently working in overdrive. He did that, Chris noticed, when he was thinking hard. He isolated himself, needed to be alone to think hard.

Chris reflected that, while maybe the Boss needed to be alone to think, he shouldn't have been alone when he acted on those thoughts. Then maybe he would have had an alibi for later that night. If he had taken Annie or some other plonk with him to that ritzy restaurant...

Chris spit out his toothpaste and rinsed it down the sink, then stared at himself in the mirror, considering. He tried thinking hard, like the Boss did. And he decided that, if anything were to be done, someone needed to go to that restaurant. For a split second, he considered going alone, but he realized that he would be stepping into the same mess that Sam had stepped in.

He decided that first thing the next morning, he would tell the Guv.


	6. Chapter 6

Part Six

“Sam? Sam? How are you feeling?”

“Mum?” Sam groaned and leaned into the coolness someone was pressing against his forehead. “I feel better, Mum. Better...”

The woman crouched beside him sighed. “Clearly not, if you think I'm your mum.”

Sam's eyes flew opened to take in the sight of Gene Hunt's wife raising an eyebrow at him. “Oh!” He remembered now. “Sorry...” He started to sit up and found that, while the sharp pain in his ribs had faded to a dull ache, it still hurt. Grimacing, he pushed himself up on his elbows... and realized that he was missing his shirt.

“I think you are a bit better,” Alice murmured, removing the cool flannel from his forehead. “Ever since we stripped you, your fever went down considerably.”

Sam felt his face flush as he quickly looked down at himself. He was wearing nothing but his pants, and wide swatches of gauze were wrapped tightly around his ribs. He winced at the sight of all the bruises covering his body. Those were going to hurt for a while.

“How do those ribs feel?” Alice asked.

“Better.”

“And your nausea?”

“Still there, but not as bad.” Actually, he felt--

“Hungry?” Alice asked.

Sam looked at her with a smile. “Yes. I am.”

“I'll fix you some porridge.” She stood and walked toward the kitchen, leaving Sam alone in the living room.

For a moment, he wondered where Gene was, then he realized that it must be late morning. Gene would be at work, at CID, where Sam should be. Sam groaned and fell back against the pillows. Mistake, he realized, as the sudden impact jarred through his body. He clenched his teeth and held back a cry of pain.

“Stupid, stupid,” he muttered to himself.

Sam decided that he was not going to enjoy being away from work. He couldn't. They needed him.

A strange sadness tightened his throat when he wondered if maybe they didn't. Maybe they didn't need an injured murder suspect tagging along. His eyes and nose started to sting, and he swore, forcing himself not to cry. He sniffed and angrily wiped at his eyes.

They were going to solve this—Gene and Ray and Chris and Annie—and they were going to do it with Sam's help.

“I will not be useless,” Sam vowed, gingerly sitting up again. A wave of deja vu swept over him. He had tried getting up before. He had used the bathroom as an excuse—and the throwing up and struggling to breathe had prevented him from completing his mission. What was I trying to do? What was it?

“Aha!” Sam exclaimed, then clapped a hand over his mouth with a glance toward the kitchen. He waited, and when Alice didn't return, he carefully pushed himself up to a seating position. His whole body felt stiff, especially his throbbing ribs, and nausea threatened to arise in his stomach. But he made himself sit up.

He had to find out who had followed him at the restaurant the night Robert Boardman was murdered.

 

“Eh? What is it, Chris?”

Chris swallowed visibly, clearly excited about something. Annoyingly, he seemed too worked up to speak.

“We haven't got all day,” Gene snapped.

“Guv, it's about the Boss,” Chris finally stated, seeming both proud of himself and worried at the same time.

“I should hope so, Christopher, as we're working on a case in which he is accused of murder,” Gene replied. “Go on.”

“Well the other night—the night that poor bloke was murdered—I was talkin' to the Boss before we left work--”

Gene resisted the urge to sigh and roll his eyes. He felt his cheek twitch.

“--and I was askin' him if I'd see him at the Railway Arms, as usual, and he said no,” Chris continued, oblivious to his Guv's impatience. “And I was wonderin' why. I started to walk away, but then I thought, I'll ask him. I'll see what the Boss is up to. I was all curious like--”

Gene sighed and rolled his eyes. “Chris, what has this got to do with the case?”

Chris blinked, looking chagrined. “Sorry, Guv. I'll hurry it up if you want me to.”

“Yes, yes. Speed it up!” Gene commanded, waving his hand at the younger man.

“So I asked the Boss where he was goin', and he said this fancy restaurant a few blocks from the pub--”

“Restaurant.” Gene's attention was piqued. He narrowed his eyes on the DC. “Continue.”

“He said it had something to do with one of the cases we were workin' on at the time, Guv.” Chris shrugged. “And that's it.”

“That's it.” Gene mulled this over in his mind. Before Sam had passed out the night before, he had said something about the restaurant... “Chris, did you get the name of the restaurant?”

“Yes.” Chris smiled proudly and straightened his shoulders. “The Gilded Button. That fancy place where chaps take their birds for their anniversaries and such.”

“Good work, Chris.” Gene patted the younger man's shoulder. “We'll have to look into this place. You didn't by any chance catch which case Tyler was working on, did yeh?”

“No. Sorry, Guv.” Chris shook his head, his smile fading.

“Well find out then!” Gene ordered. “Take a look at all our current cases and see if any of them have a connection with that poofy restaurant.”

 

“What makes you so sure the Boss didn't do it?”

Annie and Chris looked up from the evidence and exchanged a worried glance, then looked at Ray.

“Well?” He waved his cigarette in their direction.

Annie crossed her arms over her chest. “You were with us on his innocence not ten minutes ago.”

“Yeh. I was.” Ray shook his head. “He's an odd bloke, but he doesn't seem the sort to bludgeon anyone.”

“Then why are you doubting him now?” Annie asked sharply.

Ray considered his answer for a moment. Sam Tyler wasn't his favorite person, but he was one of the team. He was the Boss. However...

“The evidence, Cartwright,” Ray said, motioning to the objects spread across the desk. “Isn't that what the Boss is always saying? To look at the evidence?” He took a puff of his cigarette, feeling frustrated. “Every shred of evidence we've collected points straight at our DI.”

Annie wouldn't look at him, then, touchy bird. Chris stared at him, wide eyed and sad, looking like a puppy who had just been denied scraps from the table. That hurt Ray. Chris was like a little brother to him. He didn't like to see him upset... unless he was playing a joke on the twonk. But this wasn't a joke. It would never be funny.

“Let's face it. The Boss might be guilty.” Ray angrily stubbed out his cigarette in the nearest ashtray. He wasn't sure why he was so angry. Was he angry at the Boss for betraying them? Angry at himself for doubting one of the team? Or angry at all of them for not finding anything to prove Tyler's innocence?

“Yeah. He might.” Annie fixed him with a cold look. “But he might not. Innocent until proven guilty, eh?”

“The Boss wouldn't do it,” Chris said firmly, looking dazed and sounding as if he were trying to convince himself. “He wouldn't.”

Ray didn't see why the Boss would. It didn't make sense. But here they were, standing beside this desk piled high with damning evidence...

“Fine.” Ray popped a stick of gum in his mouth and started chewing furiously. “We'll go at it from this angle: the Boss is innocent. And we've got to prove it.” He had a feeling he was echoing the Guv in this statement. At least, he hoped he was.

Chris frowned, looking a bit confused. “That's what the Guv said.”

“Exactly, you div,” Ray replied, rolling his eyes. “And what the Guv says, we do.”

“That wasn't your tune ten seconds ago,” Annie remarked tartly.

“Well that's what I'm sayin' now,” Ray retorted. He stood akimbo, glaring down at the evidence. “Now what do we do with this junk?”


	7. Chapter 7

Part Seven

“What's this about a dog, Cartwright?”

“It was an argument with his neighbors. Look.” Annie handed Gene a thin stack of paper, maybe only three or four pages, which he took with a sideways look at her. “I think I'm onto somethin', Guv.”

Gene leafed through the pages, hoping that she was right, hoping that this incident with the dog was more than it seemed. As he read—as quickly as possible—about the argument over the stray creature, he wondered if such an argument was enough to cause someone to kill... He sighed and handed the papers back to Annie. “We'll look into it. Seems a stupid thing to kill someone over, but most killers I've run across are a little lacking in the brain department.”

“Not like Sam,” Annie said quietly, holding her DCI's eyes.

“Not like Sam,” he echoed, then shook himself mentally. “Keep looking into this, Cartwright. See what you can turn up.”

“Right, Guv. Where do you want me to start?” she asked.

“You can start by trying to find the dog,” Gene said.

Annie blinked. “What good would that do?”

“About ten minutes ago, Ray discovered some sort of animal hair on that bloody shirt of Tyler's,” Gene explained. He was trying to sound calm, but this could be something good. This could be hope. “See if you can find the dog and get a sample of its hair.”

“Yes, Guv.” There was hope in her, too, he could tell. She held herself a little straighter, and her eyes were a little brighter. “I'll get right on it.”

“Snap to it!” the Guv ordered, and Annie hurried to obey, grabbing up her notepad and pen and slipping into her jacket. She also took an evidence bag with her, Gene noticed. Good girl. Quickly, he turned to Ray before he could start getting sentimental about his team. “Raymondo, you still got that dog hair?”

“It's a dog hair, is it?” Ray asked, looking up from whatever he was doing.

“I think so,” Gene answered. And he did. He had a hunch that the hair from the disputed stray would match the hair found on the shirt.

“Right here, Guv.” Ray held up a small, clear bag.

So he was using the evidence bags, too. It was starting to be a good habit. And that was due to Sam. A bittersweet smile fought for leeway on Gene's face, but he fought back. “Keep it where you won't lose it,” he told his DS.

“Right, Guv.” Ray nodded and set the bag on the desk. “What's this about a dog?”

Again, Gene almost smiled. If his DI wasn't accused of murder and an innocent man wasn't dead, the whole dog situation might be funny. “Seems as though our victim had some sort of spat goin' on with his neighbors. Summat about a stray dog.”

“A stray dog?” Ray's eyebrows rose in a look of skepticism. “You think that bloke's head was bashed in because of some mutt?”

“We've put away bastards who've killed for less,” Gene replied.

“True, Guv.” Ray nodded.

Gene frowned as he realized that something was missing... someone was missing... “Where's Skelton?” he asked sharply, inexplicably worried about the blundering young copper.

“In the collator's den,” Ray replied with a nod in that direction. “Siftin' through paperwork. Said you told 'im to look for some connection with a snotty restaurant.”

“I did.” Gene stood akimbo. “I didn't expect him to listen so well.”

Ray shrugged. “Chris's growin' up, Guv.” He winced. “' Least, I hope so...”

 

Chris sneezed once. Then twice. Then three times. Three might be a lucky number. He wasn't sure, but he hoped so. He deposited the large stack of old papers on the edge of the nearby table, then bent over them and began slowly reading over them, looking carefully for any mention of The Gilded Button.

They had been working on two cases when the Boss had gotten himself arrested. One was an armed robbery case, in which a witness had been shot and nearly died. The other was the murder of a vagrant who called himself Gypsy Tom. On the surface, neither of them seemed to have anything to do with the fancy restaurant.

But apparently, there had been a connection, and Sam had been looking into it. Could it be that someone didn't want him to find out more? Is that why Sam had been framed? But what about the victim? Did Robert Boardman have something to do with one of these two cases, too?

Chris was almost lost in thought when something pricked his subconscious. He blinked, shook himself and looked down at the paper on top of the stack. It was the record of a phone call from The Gilded Button to the police station. Apparently, a waiter and a patron had complained that a suspicious-looking man was hanging around the back entry to the building...

Chris's eyes widened as he read the details of the call. “Gypsy Tom...”

When he read the name of the patron who had complained, his eyes widened even further. “Robert Boardman!”

He thought he would faint when he read that the policemen who responded to the call had been DCI Gore and DS Babbin. His eyes narrowed as he frowned down at the paper. “Now why would a DCI and a DS respond to a call about a vagrant?” Maybe they had just been the closest coppers to the restaurant that night. Or maybe something else was going on...

 

“Apparently, there wasn't much interesting about Robert Boardman at all.” Annie sighed and leaned her chin on her hand. “He didn't have many friends. He did his work quietly, then he went home every night alone. His hobbies seemed to be sketching animals and bird watching. Nothing unusual. He ate at the same restaurants at a strict routine. The only break from habit came recently, when he got into that row with his neighbors over that dog...which I haven't found yet.”

“His boss said his work was a little slack lately, but he thought that was because Boardman seemed to have caught a cold,” one of the other DC's spoke up.

“How long was his work slack?'” Gene asked, recognizing a pattern.

“For the past two weeks or so,” the DC replied.

“When was that row with the neighbors?” Gene inquired of Annie.

Annie's eyebrows rose. “Two weeks ago.”

“Looks like a pattern, Guv,” Ray spoke up.

A pattern. That's what Sam would want us to look for... “Right. So we look into everything that happened two weeks ago and a little before. What happened to change Robert Boardman's life? And did that change have summat to do with his murder?”

That was when Chris burst into the room waving papers and blurting out something unintelligible about a button.

 

Of course, the Hunts' phone was in their kitchen. Sam groaned when he heard it ring. So no sneaking around on the phone for him.

Somehow, he had to find out if what he'd suspected about the incident at the restaurant was true. He had to find a phone so he could call the restaurant and speak to that waiter... What was his name? Stanly! That was it. Stanly Summers.

For perhaps the billionth time, Sam wished he had his mobile. Then he could just call the restaurant and ask to speak with Stanly and that would be that.

Maybe I should just ask Alice. Maybe she'll let me call. He listened quietly as Alice laughed with the person on the other end of the line. No. She'll say I need to get my rest.

Sam appreciated what Gene and Alice had done for him. They had practically saved his life. But he was about sick of mothering. He needed to get out and get to a phone and do some work. So while Alice was on the phone, Sam carefully stood and started tiptoeing toward the front door. His body screamed at him to stop, achy, shuddery, feverish pains pinching at his muscles. But he had to keep going. There was a killer out there. People were in danger—possibly people he knew.

When he was halfway to the door, Sam stopped to catch his breath. His head was spinning. He was still sick, he knew, and sore from the beating he had taken. “That doesn't matter,” he muttered to himself. “I have to help.” He forced himself to keep walking, forced himself to make it to the door. He wanted to laugh in triumph when he finally reached it and leaned against it. For a moment, he closed his eyes and smiled, feeling the cool wood against his cheek...

“Sam Tyler, you're not thinking of walking out of that door, are you?”

Sam groaned and opened his eyes, still leaning against the door, to see Alice approaching him. “Yes. Yes, I am thinking of it.”

“Well thinking is as far as you're going to get.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And if you don't come back to the sofa right now, I'll drag you there.”

Sam considered her proposition and sighed. “Well, you might have to drag me anyway, because I feel like--”

A sudden booming and popping sound caused Sam to lurch back from the door, staggering against Alice's proffered arm. “Alice, what--?”

“I don't know.” Her eyes were wide. “Maybe we should call Gene.”

“Let's see what it is.” Sam withdrew from her grasp and staggered toward the door.

“Sam--” Alice cautioned.

“I just want to see what that sound was.” A sinking feeling gripped Sam's stomach. It didn't feel good, especially mixed with the nausea that was already there. But Sam didn't let that distract him. Slowly, he opened the front door of the Hunts' house and peered outside. At first, he saw nothing that could have caused the noise. Then, his sharp eyes picked up a familiar sight. He grimaced and closed the door, turning to face Alice. “Alice, we probably need to call your husband. I think we've been given a warning.”

“What do you mean, Sam?” Alice asked, her face calm and still, though her eyes were wide.

“Firecrackers,” Sam told her with a wry smile. “Someone just tossed firecrackers in your yard.”

“Are you sure it wasn't just some wild teenagers or something?” Alice suggested, but she didn't sound very sure about that.

“Let's just say I have a feeling about this,” Sam told her slowly. And he did. It was that not-so-nice, sinking-and-nauseated feeling.

“Who would want to warn us, Sam? And about what?” Alice asked.

“I don't know.” He bit his lip and shook his head, thinking hard. It had to do with the case, he was sure. “Could be someone who's mad at Gene—”

Alice rolled her eyes, grinning a bit. “Can't imagine why anyone would be mad at Gene.”

“--or it could have to do with this case,” Sam finished. And that was what he really thought. He took a deep breath and gathered his courage. “We should tell the Guv—I mean, Gene—soon. I'd also like to use your phone to make a very important call. It's about the case.”

Alice raised an eyebrow. “Sam--”

“Please.” He gave her what he hoped was his best and most fervent pleading look. “Please. It's important.”

Alice sighed. “Fine. But we'll have to ask Gene about it first.”

“Fine.” Sam shrugged, then winced at the aching that assailed his body. “And if you don't mind... I think I'll need a little help getting back to the couch.”

Alice moved quickly to his side. “Maybe if you weren't so stubborn, trying to sneak out of the house, you wouldn't be feeling so bad.”

“Maybe,” Sam admitted a bit breathlessly as Alice helped him across the living room and back to the sofa, that blessedly soft sofa that he was going to miss when he was back to sleeping in his bed. “But I had to try.”

“Next time you try it, I'm going to smack you,” Alice told him, and he wasn't sure that she was entirely joking.

But as he relaxed against the pillows of the couch, he grinned. He had accomplished something today. He was going to get to help with the case!


	8. Chapter 8

Part Eight

“A warning?” Gene scrunched up his nose and glared at the remains of the firecrackers that had been tossed into his yard. “Bloody bastards.”

“That's what I thought, too.” Alice stood behind him, still wearing her apron, drying her hands on a dishrag. “Sam insists it has to do with this case. But are you sure it's this one? You've probably upset dozens of people recently.”

Gene glanced sharply at his wife. “What do you mean by that?”

She shrugged, unfazed by his steely glare. “You always do things your way, Gene. Some people don't like that—especially those who go to prison because of it or see family go to prison because of it.”

Gene considered and decided that she was right. A lot of people—unwisely--disagreed with him. Their loss. And many of those who did—murderers and nonces and nancy boys, in general—were the sort to stoop to silly intimidation like this, like firecrackers. Still... Was it coincidence that this threat had taken place during this particular case? Was it coincidence that someone had thrown firecrackers in Gene Hunt's yard while an accused Sam Tyler was being kept under his roof?

Gene didn't think so. He sighed. “Tyler's probably right.”

“And speaking of your DI, he wants to make a phone call,” Alice said. “Says it's important and it has to do with the case.”

What was Sam onto this time? Gene had to admit that Sam's leads—crazy and disconnected as they sometimes seemed—often turned out to be important. “We'll let him make his phone call. I'll talk to him about it first.” He was curious now. Maybe he would finally learn what Sam had been muttering about before he passed out on the couch, about some restaurant... Possibly the one Chris had gone on about...

Gene turned and headed into the house, with Alice trailing behind him. He was surprised at how eager he was to check on Sam, how worried he was about his DI. Since when had the picky pain become so important to him? He shook off the disturbing thoughts and practically stalked across the carpet to stand over the DI in question, who looked ridiculously pale and skinny lying on Gene's couch, propped up by what seemed to be half a dozen pillows. “Still alive, I see.”

“Hanging in there, Guv.” Sam smiled a bit, but his voice was weak and pinched.

Gene resisted the urge to flinch as guilt rose up and smacked him in the proverbial face. Why hadn't he stepped in earlier and stopped those thugs before they beat the snot out of his DI? “Good. I hear you want to help out with the investigation.”

Sam nodded, swallowing visibly. “I have a lead. It has to do with the case. I know it.”

“Why don't you tell me about it?” Gene took off his coat and tossed it over the back of the nearby easy chair, then plopped down in that chair and leaned forward toward Sam.

“I was looking into that case about the murdered homeless man, Gypsy Tom,” Sam started.

Gene narrowed his eyes on his DI. “Does this have sommat to do with that poncy restaurant? The Gilded Button?”

Sam's amber eyes widened dramatically, and he sat up a bit, wincing, one hand moving to his ribs. “Yes!” he exclaimed, seeming to brush off his pain. “Yes, it does.”

“Chris looked into the whole incident,” Gene informed the younger man, feeling a twinge of disappointment. He waved a hand. “We know that ol' Tom was spotted outside the restaurant not long before he died.”

“Guv--”

“And we know that Boardman made a complaint about him--”

“Guv, listen--”

“And we know that Gore and Babbin, for some reason, responded to the call.”

“Gene,” Sam hissed, then burst into a fit of coughing.

Oh, God. Not the guilt again. “Take it easy, Tyler. The missus would never forgive me if I let you cough up a lung on her carpet.” He joked to ease his own guilt.

Sam shot him a glare as he fought to regain his breath.

“Be nice to the poor boy, Gene!” Alice called from the kitchen. “If he dies because of you, it's divorce!”

Gene rolled his eyes, but couldn't help but grin. A clever girl, his Alice. Then he realized that Sam was still coughing. “Whoa, Tyler. Breathe, will you?” He looked around for the glass of water he knew his wife would have provided, spotted it on the end table, snatched it up and moved to sit beside Sam on the sofa. “Here you go. Take a few sips of this. 'S not Scotch, but it's liquid.” Gently, he held the glass to Sam's lips and tipped it up.

Sam drank thirstily, almost frantically, and Gene found himself feeling like a mother bird feeding her young. It was an alien feeling, and Gene wasn't sure whether he liked it or not.

“Slowly, Gladys, or you'll choke worse,” he muttered.

Sam nodded, still gulping the water, then leaned back from the glass, droplets running down his chin. He let his head drop back, eyes closing, as he panted. His face had gone an alarmingly pale shade. “Guv, I went to the restaurant to ask them about Tom, and I think someone followed me,” he gasped out.

“Followed you?” Gene set down the nearly-empty glass. “What do you mean?”

“After I left the restaurant, there was a man following me.” Sam's eyes opened, and he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, mopping up the spilled water with his own skin. “I'm not sure who he was, but his clothes were very distinctive.”

Gene raised an eyebrow. “You sure it wasn't just some creepy nonce?”

“I'm not sure, but... I think I caught a glimpse of him inside the restaurant before I left,” Sam continued.

“Not sure about a lot of things, are you, Dorothy?”

Sam shot him a glare, but continued with his story. “He must have been a patron. Then, as I was walking home, I kept seeing him behind me. He was watching me, in sort of a curious way.”

“You didn't try to shake him?” Gene asked. “Or confront him? I would have confronted the bastard and told him to stop following me.”

Sam shook his head, looking sheepish. “I didn't confront him. I thought I shook him. Guess I didn't.” He shivered and rubbed his hands up and down his arms. “He must've figured out where I live, planted the evidence...”

“You said he wore distinctive clothes. What kind of clothes?”

“A very loud checked suit,” Sam said. “Hideous thing. Red and tan, from what I saw of it. He wore a matching fedora, cocked low over his forehead so I couldn't see his face.”

“And his build?” Gene asked.

“Average, I'd say.”

“So bigger than you, smaller than me?” Gene supplied.

“Yeah, between us.” Sam nodded, looking askance at his Guv.

“Could've been almost anyone with bad taste in suits, then.” Gene rubbed his chin.

“Was this what he looked like?”

Gene and Sam turned in unison toward the kitchen as Alice walked out, holding up a yellow notepad. Sketched across the pad was the figure of a man in a checked suit with a fedora worn low on his head.

Gene felt his eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. He had always known Alice could draw, but the fact that she could use her talent to help on a case... That he hadn't thought of. “What have you come up with, woman?”

“She's come up with a very good depiction of my stalker,” said Sam excitedly, sitting up further. He reached for the sketch. “Let me see it, Alice.”

“Let me know if I need to change anything.” She handed the DI the notepad. “I couldn't help but overhear--”

“The missus is a real eavesdropper, in case you haven't noticed, Tyler,” Gene muttered.

Alice smiled sweetly at her husband. “--and since I overheard a description of a mystery man, I decided to draw him. Lucky for you boys, I keep a notepad and pencils by the kitchen phone.”

“This is very good, Alice!” Sam praised her.

Gene felt a brief upsurge of jealousy. “Yes, very good, luv,” he told her hurriedly, not to be outdone. “So... What do we do now? Take this sketch with us door to door and ask if anyone's seen that suit?”

“That's actually not a bad idea,” Sam said, meeting his DCI's gaze over the top of the notepad. He glanced back down at the paper. “Hmm... The checks were a bit smaller, and there was a black band around the fedora. Think you could fix that, Alice?”

“Can do, DI Tyler.” She took the pad from him and headed back toward the kitchen. “Anything else?”

“I think it's been a while since we've been on... a date, luv,” Gene spoke up, proud of the brilliance of his sudden idea.

“Excuse me?” Alice turned and fixed him with a questioning look.

“Whaddaya say we try that fancy place The Gilded Button?” Gene suggested with a crooked grin.

“Brilliant, Guv!” Sam exclaimed. The cheeky little bloke was grinning himself.

“I'm the Gene Genie, aren't I?” Gene sniffed and straightened his tie.

“But wait...” Sam's grin faded. “If you and Alice are scoping out the restaurant, who's going to be 'babysitting' me?” His usual sarcasm slipped into his voice.

Gene wasn't sure whether to punch it back out of him or be grateful that his DI was feeling well enough to be snarky. “I'll get Chris or Ray to do it. Can't trust you alone with a bird like Annie.” Ignoring the rolling of Sam's eyes, he stood and straightened his shoulders. “The missus and I are going on a date!”


	9. Chapter 9

Part Nine

Sam slipped his arms gingerly through the sleeves of his shirt, which was nice and warm, freshly cleaned and pressed. His skin felt tender all over, sensitive to even the softest brush of fabric against it. He started to button up the front, wincing whenever his fingers or the shirt came in contact with the dark bruises that crossed his stomach and ribs.

“Feeling any better, Boss?” asked Chris with genuine concern.

Frustrated by pain and weakness, Sam had to fight down the urge to snap at the young officer. He bit his tongue, grimacing as he fumbled with the last few buttons of the shirt. “I'm fine, Chris,” he said finally.

“That's good.” Chris stood awkwardly by the sofa, staring down at his Boss, worry apparent on his face.

Sam sighed and leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes, wearied by the simple act of putting on his shirt. “You can sit down, Chris.”

“I don't—I don't know that I can, Boss,” Chris said quietly, glancing over his shoulder toward the nearby hallway.

“What?” Sam opened his eyes and looked up at Chris with puzzlement. “What do you mean?”

Chris took a step closer to the sofa, leaning down to whisper, “It's the Guv's house.”

Ah. I get it now. Sam couldn't help but smile. He almost couldn't help but laugh, but he kept that urge in check. “It is the Guv's house,” he confirmed quietly, amused at Chris's reverence. “But I don't think he would mind if you sat in one of his chairs, seeing as that's what chairs are for.”

“Really? D'ya think so?” Chris asked, eyebrows raising.

“Yeah. Sit down.” Sam motioned to the nearest chair.

Chris smiled brightly. “Alright, Boss. Don't mind if I do.” He started to sit down—but not in the chair Sam had motioned to; instead, he headed for Gene's easy chair.

“Chris--” Sam started, holding up a warning hand.

“Christopher!” Gene boomed, looming out of the hallway. “What're yeh doin' in me chair?”

“Oh! Sorry, Guv!” Chris jerked up out of the chair with a look of chagrin.

Sam covered his face with his hand. Now Chris will be traumatized for life...

Gene waved a hand at the DC and turned to Sam. “So, Tyler, think you can manage to stay alive without me and the missus here to feed and water you?”

Sam crossed his arms and cocked an eyebrow at the Guv. “I'm not a houseplant, Guv. Nor am I a small dog. I'll survive.”

“Good.” Gene cleared his throat and looked away from Sam, seeming suddenly uncomfortable.

Sam realized with a start how worried his DCI was about him. Something about that realization touched him deep inside. It was a nice thing to know, that someone was worried about him... He shook himself mentally. “So... Excited about your date?” He grinned crookedly as he took in Gene's immaculate suit and shiny white shoes.

“Excited?” Gene scoffed. “Hmph. Have to go to some poncy restaurant where they serve the sort of food nancy boys like you enjoy—snails and fish eggs and the like. And I'm not goin' to enjoy meself, Tyler. I'm on a mission, which unfortunately means I may have to eat asparago and caveat.”

“Escargot and caviar,” Sam corrected, lips twitching.

“Trust you to know about food for poofs,” Gene muttered.

“Yes, you are on a mission, which means you're not allowed to drink copious amounts of alcohol on this date, Mr. Hunt.”

Gene spun around with a frown for his wife, who was striding out of the hallway, but his face froze when he saw her.

Sam grinned at the look on Gene's face. The man looked shocked, stricken, by the sight of his wife dressed up for their date. It must have been a really long time since their last date...

Alice wore a knee-length dress of deep blue, with gold accents around the scoop-necked collar and elbow-length sleeves. Her hair was arranged in a messy bun, brown ringlets curling around her smooth cheeks. She wore more makeup than usual, too, Sam noticed.

“Mrs. Hunt,” Chris greeted her, eyes wide.

“Hello, Chris.” Alice nodded to the young policeman, then turned to her husband, hands on her hips. “Well, Gene?”

“Woman, what have yeh done with me wife?” Gene burst out, seeming to regain his composure.

Alice finally smiled, and Sam reflected that this was the first full-fledged smile he had seen from her. “I'm right here, Gene.”

Gene cleared his throat. “Let's go, woman.” The Hunts walked together across the living room and toward their front door. Gene turned to glance back at Sam and Chris, and a brief hint of worry glinted in his eyes. “Chris, you keep 'im safe. Call Ray for back up if you need it.”

“Yes, Guv,” Chris answered. He was still standing a considerable distance from any of the chairs, Sam noticed.

As the door slammed behind the Hunts, Sam found himself missing the pair. As much as Gene irritated him sometimes and as much as Alice's mothering could be bothersome... Sam had gotten used to them being there. He dreaded going back to his apartment and living there alone again. A lump rose in his throat, and he fiercely swallowed it down. Well what you should dread more is being convicted of murder.

 

Gene felt instantly uncomfortable when he and his wife stepped through the front doors of The Gilded Button. Once inside, he understood why the place had a ridiculous name—it was decorated in a ridiculous theme. The walls—painted a fancy deep red—were covered in artwork, and all the artwork had to do with buttons, mostly gold and silver buttons. Thick, gold-colored drapes—velvet, he thought—hung by the long windows, and each table was decorated with a centerpiece created entirely out of buttons.

“This place is bonkers,” Gene whispered to Alice as they stepped up to the desk where a red and gold bedecked maitre d' waited.

“Shh!” Alice cautioned, then turned to the man—clearly a poofter—with a bright smile. “A table for two, please.”

The tall, skinny fellow beamed at Alice. “Certainly, madame.”

Ugh, French! Gene barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He held his breath as the sissy man waved down a plump young hostess, only daring to breathe when he and Alice followed the cheerful waitress away from the front desk.

“Will this be alright?” asked the clearly English young woman, motioning to a table by one of the heavily decorated windows.

Gene looked at the table and mentally compared it to the rest of the restaurant. Sitting at this particular table, he should be able to see most of the other patrons. “Sure. It's fine.”

“Right. A waiter will be with you shortly.” The hostess gave a little curtsy, then walked away.

“Can you see everyone from here, Gene?” Alice asked quietly, taking her seat.

“Yeah. This is fine.” Gene sat across from her and scowled at the decorations on the table. The napkin rings were made entirely of fancy buttons, and similar fancy buttons formed a sculpture of a flower in the center of the table. “Some loony bastard is awfully fond of buttons...” He reached to poke at the sculpture.

“Gene!” Alice hissed.

Gene sighed and turned his attention to the rest of the poofy place. Fancy-dressed individuals engaged in conversation and consumption, laughing and whispering and sipping wine from sparkling goblets.

It was going to be a long night...

 

It was going to be a long night.

There was nothing on television, and Sam didn't really feel like getting up and searching the Hunts' house for further forms of entertainment. For one thing, he was still bloody sore. For another thing, he didn't want to be caught snooping by Gene. Then he would end up even more sore.

The bored DI turned his attention to Chris who was turning a slow circle in the center of the living room, gazing in wonder at everything in the house. “You feeling hungry, Chris?” Sam asked. “The Guv said we could fix ourselves something to eat.”

Chris shook himself and turned to face Sam. “I am feelin' sorta hungry, Boss.”

“Then let's go make some supper.” Sam pushed himself up off the couch, clenching his teeth to keep from whimpering at the sharp pain in his ribs.

“You feelin' up to it, Boss?” Chris asked uncertainly.

“Yeah. Yeah. I'm fine.” Sam waved a dismissing hand. “Come on.” Slowly, he made his way into the kitchen, followed closely by Chris who was watching him with worry. Unfortunately, that worry was born out when Sam had to stop and catch his breath only a few feet inside the kitchen. Panting, he leaned against one of the cream-colored counters. “Go ahead and look inside the fridge,” he told Chris, pressing a hand against his aching side. “See what you can find.”

“Okay, Boss.” Chris opened the small refrigerator and looked inside. “There's a pot of pasta of some sort. Leftovers from Sunday dinner, I guess.”

“That'll do just fine. Set it on the stove.” Sam motioned impatiently for Chris to hurry. He was feeling ravenously hungry for some reason.

Chris set the large pot of pasta on the stove and turned to Sam with a questioning look. “Now what, Boss?”

Sam stared at the DC for a moment, wondering at Chris's lack of basic knowledge. “Well... Now we warm it up.”

“Warm it up?” Chris looked down at the knobs on the stove, frowning.

Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Turn the knob for that eye. Turn it to about seven or eight.”

“Knob. Eye. Seven or eight,” Chris repeated quietly, rubbing his chin.

Sam sighed. “Let me show you.” He gathered up his strength and moved to the stove. “Look at the little drawing here. See how this eye is circled? That means that this knob goes with this eye.”

Chris smiled suddenly. “Oh! I get it now!”

“Yeah. Good.” Sam found himself smiling as well. He liked Chris, despite the young copper's naivety. He had never had a younger brother, but he thought that if he had, he would have felt the same way toward him that he did toward Chris. He liked feeling that he was teaching Chris, helping him along. “So we turn it up to eight...” He turned the knob.

“And now what?” Chris asked.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You really haven't done any cooking, have you?”

Chris smiled a bit sheepishly. “Me mum always does the cooking at our house.”

“Ah. Well.” Sam turned back to the stove. “Now we wait until it heats up. It's probably a good idea to stir it every once in awhile, to make sure it doesn't stick.”

“Stick?”

“Stick to the bottom of the pot,” Sam explained, doing his best to be patient. He pointed to a vase containing various cooking implements. “Hand me that wooden spoon.”

“This one, Boss?”

“Yes, that one. Thanks.” Sam started to stir the pasta, but the stirring motion caused an upsurge of aches in his bruised muscles. “Here. You do it.” He handed off the spoon to Chris and leaned back against the counter. He closed his eyes briefly and wondered if maybe he should lie down again, take a nap... No. Can't do that. Chris might burn down the house. Then Gene would really be mad...

A pleasant, savory smell filled the kitchen, and Sam breathed deeply of it.

“Gene's missus must be a good cook,” Chris said. “This smells delicious.”

Sam opened his eyes and smiled at the other officer. “I'll bet Gene would rather be here eating this than at that restaurant eating their food.”

 

“I'd rather be at home eating your cookin' than here eating this rubbish,” Gene muttered to Alice as he squinted down at the menu in his hands. Of course, it closed with a gold button. Utter nonsense.

“You haven't tried it yet,” Alice told him with an air of patience.

“Well I don't want none of their green stuff.” Gene made a face. “And almost all of it looks like green stuff. And fish eggs. And snail guts.”

“And squid,” Alice finished brightly.

“Yech.” Gene shuddered.

“Just order a steak,” his wife suggested. “You'll like that.”

“I suppose.” Gene wasn't prepared to like anything about this place. Probably half the people who ate here were murderers and perverts. At least, he hoped one of them was. It was strange to hope that someone close by was a murderer. But if that someone was, then Gene could catch them, and Sam could be cleared.

The DCI sighed. So far, no sign of a red and tan checked suit. A few fedoras, but no checked suit.

The waiter, a fresh-faced young fellow with a surprisingly deep voice, returned to the table to take their order. Gene took Alice's suggestion and ordered a steak—well-done--and Alice ordered lamb. Then the waiting game started over again.

 

Waiting. Again.

Sam sat at the kitchen table, leaning heavily on his elbows and wishing the savory-smelling pasta would cool faster.

“Sorry I let it get too hot, Boss,” Chris apologized for what had to be the seventeenth time.

“It's fine, Chris,” Sam sighed. “Stop apologizing.”

“Yes, Boss. Sorry, Boss.”

Sam had to laugh a bit at that, but laughing hurt his battered ribs, so he cut that short.

“You alright?” Chris asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.” Sam nodded shortly. He bit his lip and waited for the pain to pass.

Chris scooped up a big forkful of pasta and blew on it, then took a tentative bite. From the smile on his face, Sam discerned that the food was finally cool enough to eat.

“Is it good?” he asked.

Chris gave him a thumbs up.

Sam started scooping up a forkful, when suddenly, a familiar tone rang through the house. The DI felt his body tense, and he quickly dropped his fork back into his bowl.

“That the doorbell?” Chris asked around his mouthful of food.

“Yeah.” Sam swallowed, trying to remain calm. “No one's expected, are they, Chris?”

Chris shook his head. “No, Boss.”

Sam swore. “Alright. Let's be prepared for anything.”


	10. Chapter 10

Part Ten

“You stay there, Boss. I'm s'posed to be in charge,” said Chris, feeling nothing like a man in charge as he stood up from the Guv's kitchen table. He wished Sam was feeling better. He didn't like the Boss looking so pale and tired. He also wished Sam wasn't accused of murder. That way, they wouldn't be in this scary situation. That way, they could all be down at the pub sharing a nice, big round of drinks.

“You sure, Chris?” Sam asked him, looking somewhat relieved that he didn't have to stand.

Chris wasn't sure if the line on the Boss's forehead was from pain or worry or maybe both. “I'm sure. Just... relax.”

Reaching under his jacket to pat the pistol Ray had suited him up with, Chris made his way into the living room to the front door, mentally telling himself to relax. The doorbell rang again, jarring his nerves. “I'm coming. I'm coming,” he muttered. When he reached the door, he realized that it was complete with a peephole. Good. That made him feel better. He shut one eye and squinted with the other, peering through the tiny circle of glass.

What he saw on the other side did nothing good to his nerves. Peering back at him with a look of distaste was DCI Afton Gore. Standing behind Gore was someone tall enough for his head not to be visible through the hole. Big, intimidating Babbin, Chris thought.

And now Chris wasn't sure what to do. He didn't really want to let Gore and Babbin in. He didn't like them, and he knew the Guv didn't. He also knew that they were a potential danger to the Boss. On the other hand... If he didn't let them in, he could be in serious trouble. All that paperwork Gene and Annie had filled out had stated that Sam would be kept at the Guv's house under constant watch. If Gore and Babbin turned up at the house to find no one home, there could be trouble for all of them—even the Guv. Probably especially the Guv...

“Who is it?” Sam called from the kitchen.

Chris could hear shuffling and realized that the Boss was getting up. He started to call back to him, but knew that Gore and Babbin would be able to hear that.

The doorbell rang again.

Swearing under his breath, Chris jogged back into the kitchen. “It's Gore and Babbin,” he told the Boss, all in a rush.

Sam's eyes widened, his body tensing visibly. “Oh!”

“What do I do, Boss?”

 

The steak was actually good, but Gene found himself without much of an appetite. His eyes wandered the restaurant, and his mind kept wandering back to Sam and Chris. He had a funny feeling about leaving them at his house alone. Maybe he should call the station... have Phyllis send Ray to check on them. Yes, that's what he would do. If some murderous bastard showed up at the Hunt home, injured Sam and young Chris would be in a spot of trouble. Ray, on the other hand, would not.

“'Scuse me, luv.” Gene wiped off his mouth with one of the thick red napkins. “I've got some business to attend to.”

Alice raised an eyebrow at him. “I have a feeling it's not the kind you attend to in the little boys' room.”

“Nope. 'S not.” Gene stood. “Keep a sharp eye out. I need to make a phone call.”

“Are you sending backup to our house?” Alice asked quietly.

Gene wondered at how easily she was slipping back into the life of a police detective. “Yeah. I'm sendin' Ray.”

Alice nodded once. “Good. Do that. I'll watch for our suspect.”

Leaving the watching in her hands, Gene walked quickly toward the restaurant doors.

“Need anything, sir?”

Gene glanced to his right. It was their waiter talking to him, the young fellow with the deep voice who seemed to have a hard time tearing his eyes away from the long legs of the pretty hostess. “'M fine. Just need to make a call.”

“Do you need to use our telephone? It's that way.” The boy pointed toward the front desk, where sat that silly Frenchman.

“No. Thanks. I'll use me own.”

The young waiter eyed him skeptically. “Your own? Do you live nearby?”

Over-curious little bastard. “No. It's a...” Gene swore inwardly as he realized how easy it would be to give away his purpose for being there. “It's one of them newfangled things, one of them car phone things. The wife's all about new technology. Thinks it makes us class to have one of them things.”

“Oh. Wow.” The waiter's eyes widened. “That's—that's cutting edge. Mostly only police and such have those.”

Gene resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah. Class.” They were near the exit now, and he wondered if the kid was ever going to stop following him.

“Can I—Do you mind if I see it?” the waiter asked.

“Look, kid, it's a private phone call,” Gene told him, skidding to a stop and placing a firm, restraining hand on the boy's shoulder. “It's very important. And none of your flippin' business.”

“Oh. Sorry, sir.” The boy's face flushed.

Gene sighed. This was going to cause a scene, cause unwanted attention if he didn't fix things. “And besides...” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone, when what he really wanted to do was shout at the kid to bug off. “We wouldn't want you to get in trouble on the job, would we? You've got work to do.”

The waiter brightened. “Right. Yes, sir.” He bobbed his head at Gene. “When you and the missus come back to our restaurant, you just ask for Stanly Summers, sir.” And with that, he walked away, leaving Gene feeling exhausted from the boy's chatter and curiosity.

The DCI finally made his way out of the restaurant and headed toward where he had parked the Cortina.

 

Sam shuffled to the sofa and plopped down, biting back a cry of pain as his muscles and bones protested at the sudden movement. He looked at Chris, who was studying him with worry.

“Boss?”

“Open the door.” They had to open the door. They had to. Otherwise, Gene would be in trouble, and all of them would be in trouble. He nodded to Chris, who was hesitating. “Go ahead. Open the door.”

Eyes wide, Chris nodded back. “Okay, Boss.” He reached to turn the knob.

 

Alice waited for Gene to return, jiggling one foot under the table. The lamb was good. It was very good. But she couldn't concentrate on that now. She had a job to do. Chewing on her lower lip, she glanced over her shoulder for the umpteenth time—looking for either her husband or a man in a red checked suit. She sighed as, once again, she saw neither.

This was turning out to be a worrisome night.

 

“It's Chris, isn't it?” Gore asked as he strode past Chris into the Hunts' living room.

“Yeah. It's Chris. But you can call me DC Skelton.” There was a note of defiance in Chris's voice, and Sam winced inwardly. They had to keep things calm, keep them level. “What do ya want?”

“I've come to make sure things are going the way they should,” Gore answered Chris, but his eyes were on Sam, narrowed and hot with hatred.

Sam wondered what he had ever done to make this ridiculous man hate him so much. He wrestled down the urge to make a snide comment.

“Things are going fine,” Chris assured the two officers, which would have sounded better had it sounded more... assured. “The prisoner is under control.”

“And coddled, it would seem,” Gore remarked, turning to Chris. “Why isn't this man in handcuffs?”

Chris stuck out his chest and straightened his shoulders. “He didn't seem a threat.”

Good, Chris. Nice improv.

“Not a threat?” Gore grinned suddenly, disarmingly, and Chris took a step backward, seeming as cowed by the grin as anything else—including Babbin, who loomed over average-sized Gore, glaring at Chris. “Well. It would seem we did our job, didn't we, Babbin?”

“Huh huh,” laughed the big fellow. “Yeah.” He frowned, sniffing the air. “What's cooking?”

“Pasta,” Chris said quickly. “I was just... fixing myself a bowl of pasta.”

Sam swallowed down a curse. If Gore and Babbin walked into the kitchen, they would see the two bowls of pasta on the table. They would know that Sam was indeed being coddled, that he was in no way being treated like a prisoner accused of murder.

“Pasta, eh?” Gore was quiet for a moment, seeming to consider. “Well.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why don't you fix us some? We're tired and hungry. Just came from looking into a case.”

“Which case, sir?” Chris asked.

Sam's ears perked up. It was a good question.

“Some murder of some vagrant,” Gore muttered in reply. He waved a hand toward the kitchen. “Now run along and fix us some of Hunt's pasta.”

“Right. Yes, sir.” Chris looked to Sam for confirmation.

Sam felt himself tense up when Chris turned his way. Would Gore and Babbin catch that look? Would they realize that Chris still answered to Sam? “God, I'm hungry,” Sam said quickly, rubbing his sore stomach. “Chris, why won't you give me any food?” Pretending he was hungry and his stomach ached didn't require any acting. He held Chris's eyes meaningfully, hoping the young officer would catch on.

Thankfully, he did. “There'll be none for you, B—Tyler,” Chris replied, stumbling only briefly over the words. “You're a murder suspect, not a house guest...” He grinned a bit and added, “Or a houseplant.”

Sam resisted the powerful urge to snicker. Instead, he affected a groan and leaned heavily against the cushions on the sofa.

“Snap to it and get our food, man!” Gore commanded. “We'll cuff Tyler while you're at it.”

Sam's stomach twisted inside. And this time, it wasn't from his injuries or from being hungry. He tried not to let his sudden fear show as Chris passed him on the way to the kitchen. Oh, but he didn't want to be left alone with Gore and Babbin. Tough. You don't have a choice.

“Babbin. Cuffs.” Gore walked to stand in the center of the room, arms crossed, scowling at Sam.

Babbin hurried to do his superior's bidding, crossing the carpet and brandishing a set of cuffs.

“Been easy on you, haven't they?” Gore asked, keeping his voice low.

Sam glared up at the man as Babbin yanked his hands in front of him. “Being under arrest is not my idea of easy,” he bit out. He winced as Babbin clicked the cuffs tightly around his wrists. He clenched his hands into fists so that the big thug couldn't see that they were shaking.

“Oh, but I bet Hunt's been babying you.” Gore took a few steps closer. “He doesn't believe you did it, does he?”

“Why should he? I didn't.” Sam couldn't resist putting that in. He was never going to admit to something he didn't do. And plus, he didn't want to give Gore the satisfaction of seeing him intimidated... although, a split second too late, he realized that he should be trying to do just that.

Gore studied his fingernails, then buffed them on the sleeve of his wine-colored corduroy jacket. “If he had let me have a few more minutes with you, you'd be singing a different tune.”

Sam shook his head. “No. I don't think so.”

“No?” Gore propped his leg up on the sofa and leaned over Sam, then looked up at Babbin and nodded.

Babbin grabbed the cuffs and yanked Sam to his feet.

Sam gasped at the sudden movement, his ribs twinging sharply.

“Do you know what a punctured lung feels like, DI Tyler?” Gore poked a finger roughly into Sam's ribs.

Sam couldn't hold back a murmur of pain, but he clenched his teeth and didn't let it get farther than that.

“Pasta's ready.” Chris walked back into the kitchen, carrying two steaming bowls of pasta. He stopped short when he saw Babbin holding Sam up and Gore poking at his broken ribs.

Easy, Chris. Don't overreact.

“Uh...” Chris hesitated.

Sam could have sworn he heard his heart beating in his ears. He met Chris's eyes steadily. I can handle this. We can handle this.

“Pasta?” Chris's voice squeaked out as he held up the bowls.

“Don't mind if I do.” Babbin released his hold on the handcuffs and took a bowl of pasta from Chris. “Smells awful good. Hunt's missus must be talented.” He chuckled. “Wonder how else she's talented...”

Chris looked horrified. Sam felt horrified. If Gene were here to hear those words coming from Babbin's mouth... Muscle-bound thug or no, Babbin would be a dead man. Or at least a very bruised and bloodied one.

Gore shoved Sam back down on the sofa and took a bowl as well. Sam pressed his lips together to keep from screaming as his bones and muscles were jarred once again. He was never going to get well at this rate... He shot a glare in Gore's direction—and as he did so, he noticed something... Something about the shape of Gore's shoulders, the way he bent over the bowl of pasta...

Sam's head began to spin.

 

When Alice saw the man in the red checked suit walk into the restaurant, she stood up so fast, her head started to spin. Steady, old girl. You can do this! She watched to see where he was headed, making sure to note the table where he sat, then started off casually across the marble floor of the button-bedecked eatery. She had to get a better look at him. She couldn't seem him very well from so far across the restaurant.

She decided that if anyone stopped her, she would pretend she was looking for the loo. Then she noticed the giant, glowing, sign formed from numerous translucent buttons reading “Restrooms” and changed her story. I'll say I'm looking for my husband, that I'm worried he didn't take his medication. There. That will work. She giggled to herself at the thought of anyone trying to get Gene to take medication...

The man in the red checked suit was just ahead, seated alone at a small, round table, beneath a lamp decorated in red and gold buttons. He was bent over the menu, sitting a bit crookedly in the chair, gray hair reaching from under his hat to brush the back of his collar.

Alice stopped walking and frowned. The man's hair was unkempt. And upon further examination, she noticed the sorry state of his shoes. They did not at all match the red checked suit. Loud and tasteless as the suit may be, it looked to be made of fairly expensive material...

Curiosity got the better of her, and Alice practically marched to the man's table. She tapped on his shoulder. “Excuse me.”

Instead of simply turning, the man leaped to his feet, banging his knees against the table and nearly knocking it over. He spun to face her with wide eyes.

Alice stared up at him. Way up at him. This man was very tall and lean, with a scraggly beard and fear in his eyes.

“Oh. I'm terribly sorry.” Alice bobbed her head politely. “I thought you were someone else.”

“I didn't steal it!” the man burst out, causing half a dozen nearby patrons to look their way. “I swear to you. I didn't steal it!”

“Sh, sh. I know. Quiet down!” Alice motioned for silence. Then she calmly continued, intrigued. “I'm not accusing you of stealing anything.”

“He gave it to me,” the man told her in a whisper. “He gave me the suit!”


	11. Chapter 11

Part Eleven

“What do you mean someone's following you?” Cold dread settled harshly in the pit of Gene's stomach. This case was escalating into something big and terrible.

“I can't shake this car, Guv,” Ray's voice came crackling back over the radio. “It's a little black car with a crooked headlight. They've been tailin' me for--” Static interrupted his report.

“Oh, for cryin' out loud.” Gene smacked his radio. “Ray? Can you hear me? DS Carling!”

“...is that I think I've seen the bloke before,” came Ray's voice. “He looks familiar.”

“Try your best not to lead him to me house,” Gene told his DS.

“Doin' my best, Guv... Aha! Think I've lost him now!”

“Good man.” Gene felt the tension in muscles he hadn't even known he was clenching begin to loosen. “Get there quick as you can. And be smart about things. If someone... official happens to be there, don't start a fight. Just keep Skelton and Tyler out of trouble.”

“Might be hard,” Ray snorted.

“But that's what yer Guv is tellin' you to do,” Gene replied. “Keep 'em safe until I get there.”

“Yes, Guv. Almost there now.”

“Good.” Gene started to tell Ray to be careful, but realized that he would sound a bit too mother-hen, then.

“Signin' out, Guv.”

Gene closed his eyes and prayed—yes, prayed—for the safety of his men. Something dangerous was going on, and he had a feeling that his team was smack in the middle of it.

 

Alice stared at the man in the red checked suit. “Well. Wasn't that nice of him?”

He looked askance at her. “Sure was, lady. Sure was.”

She forced a bright smile. “I'd like—I'd like you to meet my husband, if you don't mind. He'd like—he'd like to see your suit. He likes... suits.” She glanced toward the doors of the restaurant impatiently. Come on, Gene. Where are you? A worry pang clenched at her heart.

“Sure. Sure. I guess.” The man in the red checked suit ducked his head shyly. “But can I order my meal first? There was...” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “There was twenty pounds in the pockets. I never ate at a fancy place like this before.”

“That's fine,” Alice assured him, desperate to keep him there. “Go ahead and order. I'll wait with you.”

 

Ray pulled up against the curb across from the Guv's house and peered through the thickening darkness at it. Lights were on inside, and another car was parked closer to the house. Ray felt his lips curl. It was a familiar car, DCI Gore's car. Ray didn't like DCI Gore or his toady, Babbin. They had no respect for the Guv. Bloody bastards. His first instinct was to get out of his car, bust through the Guv's front door and physically throw Gore and Babbin out. What were they doing there anyway?

Ray lit up a cigarette and took a drag, trying to calm himself, trying to be smart, as the Guv had said to be. Gore and his DS obviously didn't like Tyler. They liked him even less than Ray did. In fact, they seemed to hate him for some reason. Ray had a feeling it wasn't for the his haircut and persnickety ways. No, this was something that ran deep.

And while Ray didn't like the Boss all the time, he had to admit, that sometimes, he almost did. And he usually respected the man, especially of late. Something had happened—Ray wasn't sure what—to make Sam Tyler seem more at home here in Manchester. He had been easier in his own skin lately and easier with the rest of the team. Ray didn't want to see him killed by those idiots Gore and Babbin.

So he needed to get in there and keep things calm. Which was ironic, seeing as what he really wanted to do was let Gore and Babbin know what he thought of them.

“That's the Guv's job,” Ray muttered to himself, stubbing out his cigarette. “That'll wait till the Guv gets here.”

He got out of his car fully intending to keep a level head about him.

 

Gene started back toward the restaurant, but stopped in his tracks at the noisy sound of a revving engine. Frowning, he turned toward the right, the direction from which the engine revved. A small, dark car was parked in a nearby alley, its lights cutting through the shadows. One headlight was crooked...

Gene swore and picked up his pace. He didn't know if whoever was driving that car was following him or waiting for him, but he didn't want to take the chance. He was halfway across the parking lot, when the little car pulled out of the alley and started down the street, headed away from the restaurant.

Gene swore again. He would really like to know where that car was going... But he didn't want to leave his wife alone in the restaurant, alone with a stalker who might very well be a murderer.

Swearing even more creatively, Gene hurried back to the Cortina and climbed inside. He quickly put on the driving gloves and cranked up the car, then pulled out onto the street. He would have to radio Phyllis and have her contact Alice somehow.

This was getting to be a complicated night...

 

As if sensing that Sam was watching him, Gore spun around and fixed his eyes on the younger man. “What are you up to, Tyler? Are you scheming about how to brain me like you did Boardman?”

Sam shook his head. “No.” He swallowed, trying not to show the shock and recognition on his face. He had seen Gore before, outside of CID. And now he was remembering where. “And I didn't 'brain Boardman,'” he couldn't help but add.

“That's for a jury to decide,” Gore shot back with a triumphant grin. He turned back to his pasta bowl. “Mmm. This is delicious. Want a bite?” He waggled a forkful in Sam's direction, like a school-age bully picking on a classmate.

Sam's stomach twisted—with both hunger and nausea, which was a dreadful combination—but he kept a straight face. “No thanks. I wouldn't chance eating after you, anyway. Might catch something.” As soon as the words were out, he regretted them, and his whole body tensed up, expecting a blow.

The blow never came. Gore simply narrowed his eyes on Sam as he chewed pasta.

“Want me to pound him for ya, sir?” Babbin volunteered with a growl, stepping toward Sam.

“No, no. That's for later, after supper,” Gore told his DS with a smile.

“Uhm, I'm not so sure about that,” Chris spoke up. “We don't want to get in trouble for roughin' up the prisoner too much.”

“Since when has Hunt's team ever cared about that?” Gore asked, rolling his eyes.

Since I came on the team, Sam thought with a wry smile. And especially since I was accused of murder.

Before Chris was forced to answer Gore's question, there came a pounding on the door. All four men in the living room jumped slightly and turned to face the front door. Now who would bother to knock like that when there's a doorbell? Sam wondered.

“Open up, Chris!” called a familiar voice.

“Is that Carling?” Gore asked, wrinkling his nose.

“Yeah. It's Ray,” Chris replied, glancing hopefully toward the door. “Want me to answer it?”

Yes, Chris. Answer it. Sam found himself strangely encouraged by the thought of Ray thrown in the mix. Gore and Babbin were obviously planning to beat the stuffings out of Sam—again, for whatever reason—and Sam felt that his chances of survival went up with Ray there.

Strange thought, that.

“Go ahead.” Gore shrugged. “He doesn't like Tyler much, anyway, does he? Maybe he'll help us question our suspect.” The DCI tossed a cruel wink in Sam's direction.

Please don't be right. Please let me be right. I'm right. I'm right. Aren't I? Ray will be on my side. My side. Sam forced himself to shrug nonchalantly and look away from Gore.

Chris hurried to the door, obviously relieved that Ray was there. He yanked it open. “Come on in. Want some pasta?”

 

“Mrs. Hunt?”

Alice spun around to face the round-cheeked hostess, who looked a bit harried. “Yes?”

“There you are! I was looking for you! Is everything alright?” Her blue eyes were wide and innocent as they slid from Alice to the man in the red checked suit and back again.

“Yes. Everything's fine. I was just talking with this gentleman about...” Alice frowned a bit, suddenly nervous. “Excuse me, but how do you know my name?”

“Your sister described you.” The hostess nodded toward the front desk. “She's on the phone.”

“My sister?” Alice's eyebrows shot up. She had no sister. Something was going on here. And where the heck was Gene? “Oh. Well. Thank-you. I'll take the phone call now.” She turned to the man sitting alone at the table. “I'll be back in a moment. I'd really like for you to stay until you've met my husband.”

The man flashed her a shy smile. “Oh, no problem. I'll be stayin' here a good while, eatin' this good food.”

“Good. Thanks.” Alice turned back to the hostess. “Lead on.” She followed the younger woman to the front desk, where she was handed a phone. “Hello?” she asked tentatively.

“Is this the Guv's missus?”

“It is. Phyllis?” Alice didn't know whether to be worried or relieved that the policewoman had called for her.

“Yes. This is she,” Phyllis replied briskly. “The Guv asked me to call you and say he's sorry, but he had to leave the restaurant.”

“What!?” Alice exclaimed. Glancing at the curious faces of the hostess and maitre d', she lowered her voice. “Why, exactly, did he do that?”

“He's in pursuit of a suspect, he said,” Phyllis informed her matter-of-factly.

In pursuit of a suspect!? What the heck!? Alice glanced toward the restaurant doors. “Oh. Well. Thank-you for telling me.” And now I'm stranded here, and I'll have to pay for this very expensive dinner. Why, thank-you, Gene Hunt! You'd better be glad I really love you!

“He also said to tell you he'd pay you back for dinner,” Phyllis added, sounding amused.

“Oh. That's nice of him.” Alice's lips twisted in a crooked smile. “Well. Thanks again, Phyllis.”

“No problem, luv. Oh! And he also said to be careful, and you can get a cab home, but he'd rather you wait for him or one of his boys.”

“I guess I'll wait with the man in the red checked suit, then,” Alice replied with a sigh.

“The who?” asked Phyllis.

“If you talk to my husband again, let him know that I've met a man in a red checked suit,” Alice told the other woman, pronouncing the words carefully.

“A red checked suit?”

“Yes. And someone gave it to him.”

 

Feeling bold, Gene tapped on the glass of the driver's side window of the little black car with the crooked headlight. The man inside jumped, then hurried to roll his window down. He squinted up at Gene. “Yes?”

“What are you doing parked across from me house?” Gene demanded.

“Oh! Oh!” The man swallowed audibly. “You're Gene Hunt!”

“DCI Gene Hunt, and that's a fact,” Gene replied. Something in the man's voice was familiar. “And who might you be?”

“Uhm... Uh...” The man fumbled around a bit, then reached up and flipped a switch, lighting up the inside of the car. His chubby face was instantly familiar to Gene.

“You're one of Gore's team, aren't yeh?”

“Uh... Yes.” The young officer nodded, wearing a sheepish expression. “DC Adam Brightman.”

“And he told you to tail us, did he?” Gene asked, an ominous feeling coming over him.

“Yes. He said he suspected some sort of... conspiracy.” Apparently, the presence of Gene Hunt was enough to make this young fellow spill his guts. “Said you were crooked, the lot of you. So I followed DS Carling. I lost him, but I found him again when I drove by here, by your house. So I just... thought I'd wait. DCI Gore's car is here, too. And that other bloke's car.”

Gene peered through the darkness. Ray's car. Good. So Ray was there. Well... He hoped it was good. He turned back to DC Brightman. “Now look here—there is no conspiracy going on in my team. It's yer own team that's been actin' suspicious. So I suggest you pack up and go home and leave us alone, 'fore I drag you out of that car. If you don't want to go down with your DCI, I suggest you take my advice.”

Until that point, Gene had not yet decided whether or not he wanted to take on Gore. His mind was plenty made up now.


	12. Chapter 12

Part Twelve

Ray's entry into the Hunts' house had completely changed the atmosphere within the dwelling. Sam felt almost smug as he watched Babbin and Gore eyeing Ray sideways. The odds were even now. In fact, he liked to think that they were stacked on the side of Gene's team. If it came to blows, despite his injuries, he would like to throw a punch or two...

The beam of headlights swept across the living room, and all five men gathered glanced toward the window.

“Are you expecting anyone?” Gore snapped, turning to Chris.

Ray answered instead. “It's the Guv's house. And he might be due home soon.” He shrugged. “I don't know. I thought he sent me here to take over for Chris, but maybe he just invited me over for a poker game.”

Gore and Babbin exchanged a worried look, and while they were doing so, Chris and Ray shot each other quick grins.

“Well.” Gore handed his bowl of pasta to Chris, and Babbin did the same. “Thanks for the pasta, Skelton. We'll be leaving now.” They started quickly across the living room floor. Before they could leave the house, Gore turned to glare at Sam. “We're not finished with you yet, Tyler. Don't think you're getting out of this.”

Sam narrowed his eyes on the man, glad he was leaving, but at the same time wishing he himself wasn't still under arrest. Then he, Sam, could be the one making an arrest. “I wouldn't dream of getting out of it,” he replied coolly. “I'm staying until we find out exactly what really happened behind that restaurant.”

Gore didn't respond. Sam hadn't thought he would. The DCI practically launched out of the house, lumbering Babbinclose on his heels.

Sam sighed heavily and closed his eyes, leaning back against the cushions of the sofa. The weariness and pain he had been holding off came rushing back over him, and he couldn't hold back a soft groan.

“Pasta, Boss?”

He opened his eyes to see Chris staring at him with a worried expression and extending a bowl of pasta. Behind him stood Ray, who was looking toward the door with a look of disappointment, apparently a bit miffed at not getting into a fight.

Sam couldn't help but laugh.

 

Gene burst into his house, half expecting to see Sam as a corpse—and possibly Chris and Ray, as well. Gore and Babbin had come flying out of the front door, looking quite guilty.

But there was Sam, laughing on the sofa, with Chris standing over him, looking puzzled and holding a bowl of something that smelled glorious, and there was Ray, standing with his arms crossed, looking completely in control of the situation—although perhaps not completely in control of the hysterically laughing DI.

Gene was stricken by a sudden urge to smack Sam and smack him hard. Here he had been so worried about his DI, thinking he might even be dead, and Sam seemed to be perfectly fine—and was laughing over something that probably wasn't even funny, as was Sam's habit. “D'you find it funny that those bastards want you dead, Sam?” he snapped, standing akimbo and glaring at his second-in-command. “Is it funny that you might be dead it if weren't for Ray... and Chris?”

Sam cleared his throat, coughed a bit and smiled up at his DCI. “No, Guv. Not at all. I find it funny that...” He shook his head, sobering somewhat. “Never mind.” He crossed his skinny arms over his chest and lifted his chin. “Well? Find anything out at The Gilded Button?”

Gene suddenly remembered that he had left his wife there alone. He grimaced. “Well. Nothing yet. The missus is working on that.”

“The missus?” Ray raised his eyebrows at the Guv.

“Yeh,” Gene admitted, trying to appear casual. “I had to put her to work, make her do something useful during this... crisis we're having.” Alice, I hope to God you've found out something... and that you're safe.

“Well, Guv, while your wife is investigating at the restaurant, I've done some investigating here myself,” Sam announced, seeming quite proud of himself. “And quite by accident.”

“Eh? What are you on about, Tyler?” Gene asked, trying to sound less interested than he actually was.

“It was Gore, Guv,” Sam told him, the smugness fading a bit, replaced by seriousness.

“What do you mean 'it was Gore?'” Gene took a step closer to Sam, not quite understanding all of what his DI was saying yet, but already chilled by it.

“The man in the red checked suit. At the restaurant. The one who followed me. It was Gore.” Sam's voice was heavy with certainty.

But Gene had to ask. “You're sure?”

Sam nodded tightly. “Quite sure. He has the right build... and it all makes a certain sort of sense, doesn't it?”

Sam was right. It did. And it served to make the whole case more dangerous—especially to Sam. If Gore was really involved—and especially if he knew that Sam knew this...

“Does he know that you know?”

Sam made a sheepish face. “Maybe. I don't know.”

Chris snickered.

“Does he know that Sam knows, Chris?” Gene turned his attention on the youngest member of the team.

“He might,” Chris admitted. “After what the Boss said.”

Gene shot Sam a glare, then continued drilling Chris. “And what did the Boss say, exactly?” he demanded.

“He said, 'I'm staying until we find out exactly what really happened behind that restaurant,'” Chris said, doing a right poor impression of Sam Tyler.

Ray snorted and elbowed Chris, nearly knocking him over, while Sam rolled his eyes.

Gene sighed. “Well let's hope Gore is too thick to get the meaning behind that.”

“Or...” Sam sat up straighter, leaning forward, that alert look on his face that Gene was coming to know well. “Let's hope he gets exactly what I'm saying.”

“Why would we hope that, Boss?” Chris asked, frowning in confusion.

But Gene wasn't confused. He knew exactly what Sam meant. “We would hope that, Chris, so it might draw Gore out, lead him into making a mistake.”

“Exactly,” Sam said excitedly. “And if he makes a mistake—and we catch him at it—we can pinch him for information and find out exactly what happened. I have a feeling he knows a lot more about the murders of Boardman and Gypsy Tom than he's letting on.”

“A feeling, eh?” Gene couldn't resist pointing out. So maybe it wasn't just Sam rubbing off on him. Maybe he was rubbing off on Sam.

Sam grinned. “Yeah, Guv. A feeling.”

“Good.” Gene crossed his arms over his chest. “We'll go with that.”

 

Alice silently sent up a prayer of thanks that she had brought a notepad and pen with her to this ridiculous, button-filled restaurant. She listened carefully as the ragged man in the red checked suit described his benefactor.

“Medium-sized bloke,” the man said, tapping his stubbly chin. “Not tall or short. Not thin or fat. Regular sorta face, a bit broad. Brown hair. Seemed agitated about sommat. All twitchy-like. He was wearin' a plain brown suit.”

Alice's pen flew over the notepad. “Did he tell you why he was giving you the suit?”

“Nah. Didn't mention that.” The man shrugged. “And I didn't think to ask. I was just glad someone was givin' me a suit.” He held out one arm, beaming proudly. “And it's a fine suit, innit?”

Alice resisted the urge to wince or feel sick at the sight of the loud red checks that threatened to sting her retinas. “Sure. It's made of a... lovely material. Quality stuff, that.”

“Yep. Sure is.” He smiled down at his sleeve.

“So.” Alice sighed and turned the notepad upside down so that it was facing the man in the red checked suit. “Does this look like him?”

He squinted down at the page for a few seconds, then grinned up at Alice. “Blimey! The very likeness! Yer a good artist for sure, Mrs. Hunt!”

“Why, thank-you.” Alice slid the notepad back around and narrowed her eyes on the man she had sketched. He looked familiar, but she couldn't remember where she had seen him before. Gene would probably remember. Or Sam. She slid the notebook back into her bag. “Well. Thank-you for telling me your story. It's just fascinating!”

“Yer welcome.” He smiled, then looked around her. “Looks like my food is comin'!”

Alice took that as her leave to go. How she was going to go, she wasn't sure. She slowly stood up from the table.

“Oh! Mrs. Hunt!”

Alice turned back to the man in the red checked suit, who was stuffing his face with food... food the likes of which he had probably never tasted. “Yes?”

“I remember hearin' the gentleman wot gave me this suit sayin' sommat when he was walkin' away. I don't think he knew I could still hear him.” A sneaky smile touched the man's wide, thin lips.

Alice's heartbeat kicked up a notch. “What—what did he say?” She tried not to sound too eager, but she couldn't help but be excited. This could be important!

“He was talkin' to someone I didn't get a glimpse of,” the man in the red checked suit said around mouthfuls of yeast roll. “He said sommat like, 'Oi, bibben, look what I have to go through to get you out of trouble.' Or sommat like that.”

“Bibben?” Alice raised an eyebrow. Was this some new term people were calling each other?

The man shrugged. “I don't know what he was goin' on about. He sounded upset. Seemed like a touchy fella. Not the kind you'd 'spect to give to charity. But who knows?” He shrugged again.

“Well.” Alice committed to memory everything he had told her. Every detail could be important. “Thanks for telling me your story, sir. I really, really enjoyed it.”

 

“Bibben?” Sam repeated.

Gene frowned at his wife. “Are you sure you heard that right, Alice?”

“I'm sure that's what he said,” Alice replied. She was pacing the floor of the living room as she related the story to Sam and Gene.

“Bibben,” Sam said again, and this time, it sounded less like a question.

“What are you onto, Sammy?” Gene asked, glancing across the couch at his DI.

Sam met the Guv's eyes. “Whose name does that sound like, Guv?” he asked with a grim smile.

“Bibben,” Gene repeated. Then his eyes widened as the realization hit him. “It's that fool Babbin!”

Alice stopped pacing and nodded. “Makes sense now, doesn't it?”

“Yeah. It does.” Gene clasped his hands together before him, frowning off into space. Gore and Babbin were in the thick of this whole mystery. It was time to find out how and why.


	13. Chapter 13

Part Thirteen

A strange feeling, one he couldn't quite put a name to, assailed Sam as he walked into CID beside Gene. It was almost the feeling one experienced when coming home after a long journey, but not quite. Almost like deja vu, but not quite. Almost--

Gene's hand closed around his arm and propelled him along at a faster pace. “You've seen it all before, Tyler. Keep movin'.”

Sam mentally shook himself and allowed Gene to lead him deeper into the building. He tossed a quick smile to Phyllis, who stared back at him, her eyes flicking to his cuffed wrists.

“Oh, Lord. You're bringin' 'im back here, Guv?” she asked Gene as they paused by her desk.

“That happy to see me, Phyllis?” Sam retorted. It stung a bit that she seemed so hostile to his return.

Phyllis sighed and narrowed her eyes on him. “I'm lookin' out for your best interests, Boss. Gore and his loonies have been hangin' around all mornin'.”

Oh. Sam couldn't help but smile. The realization that she was concerned for him felt... nice.

“Good,” said Gene, lifting his chin. “That's just what I was hopin' for.”

Phyllis looked askance at her DCI. “You want to see Tyler beaten to a pulp, do ya?”

Sam reflected that there were probably times when Gene wanted to see exactly that. He hoped to God that this wasn't one of those times.

“No. Not at all... 'least, not this time,” Gene replied.

Sam grinned, enjoying the feeling of being the Guv being concerned for him. I must be special, today.

“Now don't let that go to your smarty head, Gladys,” Gene cautioned.

“I'll try not to, Guv,” Sam answered. “Especially since you're so concerned with preventing my smarty head from being kicked in.”

Before the DCI and DI could engage in further banter, Phyllis snapped, “Well what are you doing bringin' DI Tyler here, then, Guv?”

“This is the big one, Phyllis,” Gene told her. “This is the moment where we catch our villains. And we're usin' Sam here as bait.”

“Oh Lord...” Phyllis sighed and shook her head. “You men and your heroic plans. Think you're livin' in a television show, you do.”

“Thanks for the confidence, luv. Come on, Tyler.” Gene continued walking, dragging Sam along.

The musty scent of cigarette smoke greeted Sam as he was pulled into the bullpen. He blinked through the haze and saw Chris, Ray, Annie and the others all watching, wide-eyed, as the Guv escorted their handcuffed DI inside.

“Are Gore and Babbin anywhere around?” Gene asked quickly.

Ray took his cigarette out of his mouth and shook his head. “No, Guv. They left not ten minutes ago.”

“Good. Sit down, Sam.” Gene shoved Sam toward the nearest chair.

Sam considered protesting, but he suddenly realized how tired he felt from the walk, and his ribs were starting to ache. Stiffly, he sat down, keeping his elbows tight against his sides to keep the pain from spreading. Everyone was staring at him, and he soon felt uncomfortable. He started to reach up and rub the back of his head, but stopped with his arms half raised. Handcuffs. Fantastic.

“I'm fine. It's... Everything's fine,” he assured the other officers.

“Good. Glad to have you back,” Annie replied, taking a step toward him and flashing him an encouraging smile.

Sam smiled back at her, reassuringly, he hoped. He was fine. He could do this. He didn't want anyone doubting his capability to be part of this mission.

“A'right, you lot,” Gene addressed his gathered team. “This is the moment. I want everyone actin' sharp and usin' their noggins—not just Tyler. We gotta catch these bastards in a mistake—and I'm ninety-nine percent sure that DCI Gore and DS Babbin are among those bastards. They'll be returnin' soon, no doubt, and when they do, we'll be ready for 'em. They've got it out for our DI, whom we know is no killer. I'll let him tell you why they've got it out for him. Sam?”

Sam blinked up at the Guv, surprised. He cleared his throat and met the wondering eyes of the others. “Well. Seems Gore and Babbin are mixed up in something bad, something to do with the murders of Gypsy Tom and Robert Boardman. I was looking into Tom's murder when I was followed home one night. The man who followed me home was DCI Afton Gore. Apparently, I was onto something, and he didn't want me to find out. That's why I think he framed me for Boardman's murder. Of course, this could be a misunderstanding. This is only a theory.”

“Which is why we're using Tyler as bait to figure this out,” Gene put in. “When they arrive, I want everyone to watch and listen carefully. Everyone but Cartwright, that is.”

Annie frowned. “But Guv--”

Gene held up a hand. “I need you to work on the dog problem,” he told her. “You need to find that dog.”

Sam nodded. “He's right, Annie. We can't just accuse these men, these officers, on conjecture and coincidence. We need a connection.”

“Evidence,” said Gene.

Sam and Gene exchanged a quick glance. Sam smiled crookedly at the Guv, and Gene's lips twitched, but he managed to hold back a grin.

Starting to think like me a bit, eh, Gene?

“Ah.” Annie nodded, eyebrows raising. “I get it now. I'm on it, Guv.”

Her words sparked some snickers and elbow-nudging amongst the men, but Gene quieted them down. “Listen up. This is serious business. One of our own has been accused, and we are gonna stand by him. Is that clear?”

There was a chorus of “yes, Guv.”

Sam's throat tightened, so he swallowed hard and put on a poker face.

“Now until they get here, I want every last one of you searchin' through the evidence, the paperwork, all of it, lookin' for any connection between these two murder cases and Gore and his men. Got that? Good. Now get to it!”

The officers scattered, and Sam stood, moving toward his desk.

“Hang on, Tyler.” Gene's hand clamped down on his shoulder.

Sam felt an upsurge of irritation. “Look, Guv, you brought me here. Don't expect me to sit around and do nothing.”

“Touchy today, are we, Dorothy? Are the decorators in?” Gene retorted with a scowl.

Sam started to fire back, but Gene got there first. “I don't expect you to sit around, Sam,” he told his DI, lowering his voice a bit. “But I don't expect you to look like you're workin', either. If Gore and Babbin see that, it's gonna be instant trouble for us. Do you understand me?”

Sam nodded. “Now I do.” What Gene said did make sense. But... “I can't do nothing.” He was already fidgeting with his handcuffs, unable to keep his hands still.

Gene stood akimbo and shook his head. “Thought you'd be like this, Tyler.” He nodded toward his office. “I'll get yeh some paperwork to do, since you love it so much.”

“Thanks, Guv.” As he followed Gene toward the office, he couldn't help but smile. He had won some small victory, though he wasn't sure exactly what it was. And he wasn't going to be bored being bait, after all.

 

“I'm sorry for the intrusion, Wanda, but I really must see your dog.” Annie held her ground, not flinching at the narrowed eyes of Wanda Tudor.

Wanda stared at her for a few more moments, then finally sighed and looked away. “Fine. I'll let you see the dog.”

“Thank-you,” Annie replied, sighing herself. As soon as Wanda turned her back to her, the young police officer grimaced. Dealing with Wanda was tiring work! But looking at it that way... She smiled. The Guv must really trust her to get the job done if he wanted her to get information from Wanda Tudor. She followed the taller woman into the townhouse.

“Geo-orge!” Wanda called toward the stairs. “It's that little policewoman again. She wants to see the dog.”

Again, Annie added mentally. Last time, she had caught Wanda at home alone. And last time, her request to see the dog had not gone over well. Short of arresting Wanda for obstructing justice, there had been nothing she could have done to see that dog. Now, finally, she was going to see that darn dog.

George came plodding down the stairs, dragging something along behind him.

Annie's eyes widened when the older man stepped into the light at the bottom of the staircase. Behind him stood an average sized mutt—and she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that its fur would match the hair found on Sam's shirt. It was the exact color.

“Well?” Wanda stood akimbo. “You've seen the dog. Now what do you want? Are you going to take him away from us?”

“Oh, no. Not at all.” Annie assured the woman, snapping out of her daze. She turned to George and flashed him a smile. “I hope you don't mind, but I'd like to get a hair sample from your dog.”

George said, “Not at all,” at the same time his wife shrilled, “Hair sample? Whatever for?”

Annie had a feeling that these two were no murderers. Wanda seemed formidable, but she didn't seem the type to bludgeon someone—more bark than bite. And George seemed a gentle fellow. But still... Annie knew she shouldn't divulge too much information about the case, just in case these two were somehow involved. She managed a tight smile. “I'm sorry, but I can't be giving out too much information about the case.”

Wanda sighed with an air of resignation, and George shrugged.

Annie knelt by the dog—a scruffy-looking fellow with light brown fur and a friendly demeanor. “Hello there, boy. Hope you don't mind.” Petting him with one hand, she reached with the other into her jacket and withdrew a small plastic bag. “There's a good boy!”

The dog grinned up at her, his tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth. He was quite a charming mutt, and for a second, Annie could see why people would fight over him. She ruffled the fur on his shoulders, stirring up some loose hairs, then collected a couple of hairs and deposited them into the bag, quickly closing it and putting it back inside her jacket.

“Well. Thank-you for your time.” Annie stood and turned to go.

Just as she reached the door, George said something to Wanda that made Annie's blood chill.

“I am sorry about Boardman and the way we treated him about the dog. But as soon as that dog showed up, he was like a different person, Wanda. A different person.”

 

Sam sat in the Guv's office, mercifully un-cuffed, flipping through papers that dealt with the case—information about Robert Boardman and Gypsy Tom, transcriptions of telephone calls from The Gilded Button, records of Boardman's spat with the neighbors over the dog... He was going over information about the complaint at the restaurant when something in a footnote caught his subconscious and wouldn't let go.

Sam focused all of his concentration on the paper he was reading. Boardman complained... Stanly Summers, waiter, was told to call the police... Gore and Babbin arrived, asked questions... And the footnote says: Summers described Gypsy Tom and his pet...

Sam blinked. “His pet?”

What was it with pets these days? They just kept popping up in these cases. Hadn't Annie been sent to find that dog?

Sam sat back in the chair, eyes widening, chills running up his spine, as the realization struck him. “Oh. The dog. No...” He ran his hands down his face. “No way... It couldn't... Couldn't be...” It couldn't be merely a coincidence is what it couldn't be. He laughed a bit and shook his head. This case couldn't have been more twisted...

The door to Gene's office swung open, and Gene himself strode in.

Sam jumped to his feet—a motion that caused his ribs to clench in pain, but it was pain he quickly ignored. “Guv! Guv, I've just realized something.”

“Well hurry up and spit it out, Tyler, 'cause Gore and his baboon of a DS are headed this way,” Gene replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Guv, it's about the dog,” Sam told him quickly. “I read over the paperwork and found this tiny little side note, barely a mention, of Gypsy Tom having a pet.” He couldn't help but grin, proud of himself, excited to be so close to finally solving this case. “Guv, Gypsy Tom had a pet. I'm going to call the restaurant and talk to Stanly Summers, and I have a feeling he's going to say it was a dog.”

Gene stared at him for a moment, green eyes narrowed. Then, his face lit up with understanding. “A dog. Oh my God.”

“I'm willing to be it's the same dog. The dog that was seen in the company of Gypsy Tom a little over two weeks ago.” Sam's breath was coming in quick, painful pants, and he pressed a hand to his ribs. “Do you see—do you see what this means?”

Gene nodded, hands on his hips now. He had a look on his face that Sam recognized, a look that said they were close, so close, to victory. It was a look that boded danger for criminals. “This means you'll be in the clear, Sammy. But you're not there yet.”

“I know.” Sam nodded and tried to calm himself, tried to take deeper, slower breaths. Ouch.

“And that means Gore and Babbin will still be a problem.”

From the noise coming from the room outside the office, Sam deduced that the problem had just arrived.

“And that means... I'm sorry, Sam, but that means I'm going to have to do this,” Gene continued, stepping forward.

Sam frowned and held up his hands. “Guv, what--?”

Gene grabbed Sam's left arm. “Can't let them think I'm letting you have your run around the office.” Click. In a flash, he had drawn the handcuffs from his coat and closed one cuff around Sam's wrist.

“Guv--”

“Shut up, Sam,” Gene hissed, dragging his DI toward the file cabinet. “I'm only keepin' you out of trouble.” He closed the other cuff around a drawer handle, locking Sam to the cabinet.

Sam didn't like it. He had been fidgety all day, wanting to move around, wanting to help, wanting to do something, and now he was cuffed to his DCI's file cabinet—for no good reason that he could see. “You don't have to lock me to your file cabinet!” he snapped.

“Yes. I do.” Gene started toward his office door. “You'll be safe in here. I won't let Gore and Babbin inside.”

“But, Guv--”

“Don't you worry. Nothin's gettin' through the Gene Genie,” Gene assured him. And with a wink, he left Sam alone in the office.

Sam sighed and slumped against the cabinet with a curse.

Not five minutes later, angry, raised voices echoed into the office. Sam straightened up and leaned toward the door, as far as the handcuffs would let him.

The door burst open, and in strode Gore, shadowed by Babbin, with Gene close on his heels. “Oi! I told you me office is off-limits to yeh!” the Guv was shouting.

Gore grinned when he saw Sam. “Hello, Sam. Enjoying your arrest?”

Sam ignored the other DCI and turned to Gene. “Whatever happened to 'nothing's getting through the Gene Genie?'” he asked wryly.

For an instant, Gene looked sheepish and a little harried. Then he shrugged. “Well that's just what they are. Nothin'. Nothin' good and nothin' important.” He crossed his arms and gave Sam a meaningful look.

The DI knew exactly what his DCI meant.

This was it. This was where Sam got to act as bait. This was where they were going to do their best to find out what Gore and Babbin knew, how deeply the pair was involved in the murders.

Sam managed a wan smirk.

It was just going to go down a lot sooner than they had hoped.


	14. Chapter 14

Part Fourteen

Gene hadn't wanted the confrontation to take place in his office. He had tried to keep Gore and Babbin outside. Yes, he had let them know that Sam was at the station, trying to poke their buttons just enough to make them uneasy, just enough to upset them. That way, they'd be more likely to slip up and blurt out something useful. Well, they were upset, alright. But now he was the uneasy one.

He quickly put himself between the two possibly crooked cops and his own DI. Sam was in no shape to go in swinging. He was a decent little scrapper, but the Guv didn't want to see him hurt any worse than he already was.

“Stand aside, Hunt,” Gore ordered, making a sharp motion in the scant air between them.

Gene lifted his chin. “DI Tyler is innocent.”

“That why you've got him cuffed to your file cabinet?” Gore asked, raising an eyebrow. “See, here's what I think.” He took a step closer and was now toe-to-toe with Gene. “I think he's a killer, and you know it, and you don't care. 'Cause he's either your favorite or your best buddy or your pretty boy or your illegitimate kid or whatever he is, and you are just looking to pass on the blame, playing favorites.”

The other DCI's voice was strangely passionate, and Gene frowned, wondering why this was so personal to Gore. Then he glanced over the average-sized man's shoulder and looked at Babbin, who was watching the confrontation with a dumb smile. Ah. Pot callin' the kettle black.

“Funny you're the one talkin' about favorites,” Gene told Gore, going with his instinct. “The way you let Babbin get away with murder is quite criminal.”

Gore's face went an interesting shade of pale purple, and he took a step back. “What are you saying, Hunt?” His voice was low and steady, but there was a dangerous tension to it.

The man's reaction was even stronger than Gene had expected, and for a moment, he was unsure of how to react...

… so Sam jumped into the fray. “You heard the Guv,” Sam snapped at Gore. “You're projecting your own situation onto us.”

Whatever that meant. “Yeah.” Gene stood akimbo. “I think you've got some confessing to do, and as I don't see no priests in the room, you'll just have to tell all your sins to me.”

Gore's nostrils flared, and behind him, Babbin had lost his smile.

“This is it, Guv,” Sam whispered to him excitedly. “You see it, don't you?”

Gene did see it. And he didn't like it. It made him feel almost sick inside to think that other coppers would do what Gore and Babbin had probably done. He glanced over his shoulder and met Sam's eyes with an affirmative nod.

“I'm—I'm going to have to ask you to turn Sam Tyler over to us, to our custody,” Gore stammered. “He's a murderer, Hunt.”

“No can do, Gore.” Gene crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. He was pretty sure now that some very bad aspect of this case could be attributed to these two thugs—be it a murder or covering up evidence pertaining to a murder. Worst case scenario? These two had committed two murders. “He's innocent, and you know it.”

“You know it because you were there,” Sam added sharply. “And you planted evidence in my apartment while I was sleeping. I saw you following me, in the red checked suit—the suit which you gave to another man to cast the evidence away from you.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, Tyler,” Gore sneered, but Gene saw the flicker of fear in his eyes.

“I know what he's talking about,” Gene stated. “And he's talking the truth. It's time you fess up, Gore. Or will it be you, Babbin? Come on, lads. One of you needs to crack first.”

Gore and Babbin were silent for a moment. Gore was gazing at Sam with hatred, while Babbin looked back at Gene with what appeared to be confusion.

Gene was taken by surprise when Gore exploded into action, dodging the Guv and going for Sam, his fists balled up for punching. Gene reacted as quickly as he could, grabbing the back of Gore's coat and swinging the man around. He grabbed hold of Gore's collar and shoved him against the wall. Gore snarled and shoved back, and Gene staggered backward, literally tripping over Sam, who staggered and would have fallen, save for the handcuffs attaching him to the file cabinet.

Before Gore could make another go at Sam, Gene forced himself to his feet and launched himself at Gore, his fist smashing into Gore's jaw. His satisfaction with the perfect blow was short lived, as Gore lashed out in return, smacking the side of his hand hard against Gene's throat. Coughing and swearing at once, Gene swung at Gore again.

The fight was on.

 

Sam jerked at the handcuffs holding him in place, keeping his eyes on Babbin, who was advancing slowly and menacingly toward him. “Oh, God. Oh, God.” Sam swore and tugged harder. He knew he was bruising his wrist, but maybe, just maybe, he could pull himself free.

A slow smile curved Babbin's wide, thin lips as he got closer, stepping over Gene and Gore, who were rolling across the floor trying to strangle each other.

“You're trapped, little man,” said Babbin, looming closer.

“Come on. Come on!” Sam jerked his hand again, and the motion jarred his entire body. He muffled a cry of pain as his ribs flared up again. Well they're going to hurt even worse if you let that giant moron get ahold of you again! You might have to dislocate your thumb, Sam. Think you can do that? “No,” he shook his head, keeping his eyes on Babbin. “Don't have to do that. Think, Sam. Think!” He glanced around, searching frantically for a way out.

Aha! Quickly, he snatched a paperweight off the top of the file cabinet and chunked it at Babbin. It glanced off the big man's shoulder, and he staggered, but kept coming, the smile replaced by a look of anger.

“Guv!” Sam shouted, pulling frantically on the cuffs. “I need the key!” He looked around for Gene, wincing when he caught sight of him. Gore had Gene's arm behind his back and was bending it in a manner that must be painful.

“Sorry, Sammy!” Gene yelled. “Can't get to you right now!” He turned toward the door, his face reddening with the exertion of fighting Gore. “Ray! DS Carling! Get in here now!” Then he popped his head backward, slamming Gore's nose and sending blood spurting everywhere.

Sam's heartbeat skipped when he realized that he had been distracted by Gene and Gore's brawl. Swiftly, he looked back to Babbin. The big man was standing right over him, his lips curved in an animalistic snarl.

Before Babbin could make another move, Sam kicked out at the larger man's knees, with as much strength as he could muster. His kick was well-aimed, and the big man went down with a grunt.

“Ha!” Sam called above the din of Gene and Gore's battle. “Did ya see that, Guv?”

“Busy, Sam!” Gene hollered back. And he did seem to be quite busy—busy punching Gore in the ribs. “How's that feel, ya piece of crap? D'ya like that? No? Well my DI doesn't like it, either!”

Sam turned his attention back to Babbin, who was lumbering back to his feet. Grinning this time, he kicked the man again, this time landing the toe of his boot solidly on Babbin's chin. The DS fell backward, hitting the ground with a thud.

“Score one, Manchester United, Guv!” Sam informed his DCI smugly.

“Oh, shut up!” Gene called back.

 

When Ray barreled through the door of the Guv's office, he was met by what seemed to be chaos. The Guv was holding DCI Gore against the wall by his throat and trying to avoid being kicked by the other DCI. At the same time, big DS Babbin was lying on the floor with his arms wrapped around Sam's legs, and Sam was struggling to free his legs, while at the same time pelting Babbin with various objects from Gene's file cabinet.

Ray stopped for a moment and smiled. Sam and Babbin's situation almost looked like an illustration from his granny's Bible that he hadn't seen in years... David and Goliath, was it?

“Ray!” Gene shouted. “Don't just stand there! Give us a hand!”

Ray's smile broadened. “Gladly, Guv!” He started toward the Guv, then thought better of it. Gene would see that as an insult to his manliness. And besides, the Boss was fighting with only one arm, as the other was cuffed to the file cabinet.

“Oi! Get off the Boss!” Ray yelled, kicking Babbin in the side.

Babbin flinched, and Sam managed to free one leg, which he used to help Ray kick the bigger man into submission.

“I give up! I give up!” Babbin cried, crawling backward and trying, unsuccessfully, to squeeze under the Guv's desk. “You win!”

“I like the sound of that,” Ray told the other DS. “Now you just sit tight and don't move or I'll kick you again.”

“Thanks, Ray,” Sam panted, grinning.

Ray glanced quickly at the skinny DI. He looked alarmingly pale, his face shiny with a thin sheen of sweat. But he had held his own in the brawl, even while injured and handcuffed. Before Ray knew it, he was smiling at the Boss. As soon as he caught himself, he cleared his throat and frowned. “Gonna go help the Guv now.”

“Good idea,” Sam breathed, leaning heavily against the file cabinet.

Ray jogged across the room to where Gene was backhanding a very floppy DCI Gore. He stopped and stood there quietly, realizing that the Guv had this under control.

“You like being smacked in the face like a criminal?” Gene growled, smacking Gore again. “Well you should get used to it, 'cause that's what you are.” Finally seeming satisfied, he released Gore, and the other DCI dropped to the ground, covering his bloodied nose with both hands and staring up at Gene with both anger and fear.

Ray cleared his throat.

Gene turned to face his DCI, his face red, his lip split near the corner.

“They confess to somethin'?” Ray asked, curious as to how the brawl got started. He was surprised when Gene and Sam groaned in unison.

Sam swore and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the file cabinet.

Gene swore and kicked Gore.

“What?” Ray frowned, confused.

Gene waved him off and staggered across his messy—and now messier—office to the file cabinet where Sam was cuffed. “You a'right, Tyler?”

“Yeah. I'll make it, Guv,” Sam replied with a nod.

Gene reached into his pocket and withdrew a small key, which he used to unlock Sam from the cabinet.

“Oh, thank God!” Sam gasped, taking a step away from the cabinet. He swayed a bit, and Gene reached out and firmly caught him by the shoulder. “Thanks, Guv.”

Gene didn't answer with words, just a nod. Then he reached into the file cabinet and withdrew a flask.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Here I thought you were concerned about your DI, and you just wanted a drink.”

Gene shot him a glare, but still spoke no words.

Ray crossed his arms and chewed his gum, watching the Guv with interest. Just what was he up to?

Gene stepped over Babbin, who was still crouched on the floor, watching Ray and Sam with fear. Then the Guv grabbed his chair and dragged it back across the floor—and Babbin—and set it in front of Gore. He plopped down in the chair, staring at the other DCI, and took a long gulp of liquor.

Finally, Gene spoke.

“Gore, you bloody bastard, so help me, if you don't talk, we can start the fight all over again. So which is it? You tell me what you know about these murders, or I beat the crap out of you... again.”

 

Silence descended, filling the Guv's office and making it feel stuffy.

Wincing, Sam slid to the floor, leaning against the file cabinet.

“You a'right, Sammy?” Gene called back to him. It was the second time he had asked.

“Yeah. Fine,” Sam answered. It was the second time he had lied. He felt sick in a couple of ways. Sick to his stomach from the exertion of fighting while injured, and sick at heart from the fact that their successful little brawl had been premature.

“If he's lying, kick him for me, will you, Carling?”

“Sure thing, Guv.” Ray gave Sam a meaningful look.

“I'm fine,” Sam assured him. It would have helped if he hadn't winced at that moment.

Ray narrowed his eyes on him.

Sam held up his hands. “I swear to God, Ray, if you kick me--”

“Come on, Gore,” Gene's voice echoed through the office, cutting off Sam's threat. “Give it up. We all know you're involved in this whole mess. Just tell us how deeply involved you really are.”

Abruptly, Gore laughed, and the sound of it made the hair on Sam's arms stand up. It was downright chilling.

“Oh, Hunt.” Gore sighed. “If you only knew how close your little Sammy was to finding out everything....”


	15. Chapter 15

Part Fifteen

“How close was I?” Sam asked, unable to hold back his curiosity.

Gore and Gene both shot him an irritated look, then Gene noticed Gore's hateful expression and kicked him.

“Oi! I'm the only one allowed to scowl at Tyler like that!” the Guv snapped. “Now get on with your story, you traitorous bastard.”

Gore cleared his throat, his bravado fading. “Fine. Where was I?”

Sam rolled his eyes, impatient.

“Just tell us what you know,” Gene growled.

“Alright. Here's what I know.” Gore glanced around Sam and Gene, toward where Ray was standing over Babbin. “D'you hear that, Babbin? I'm not protecting you anymore.”

Sam frowned and looked at the big man, gauging his reaction.

Babbin sat up on his knees, his face twisted in a look of despair. Slowly, he nodded. “Okay, Gore, sir.”

“There's a good man,” said Gore, shifting his position against the wall. He looked back at Gene. “Here begins the twisted tale, Hunt, the tale that your DI was far too close to unraveling. It all started with that raggedy hobo, Gypsy Tom. You see, the man was a mugger, plain and simple, a thief. Babbin and I caught him at it a few times, but here's the thing... And you should understand this, Hunt.” He gave the Guv a nasty grin. “He was useful, so we never put him away for long.”

“Useful,” Sam repeated, grimacing in distaste. “As in, an informant. You let him get away with robbing and assaulting people so you could get information from him.”

“Don't say it like that, Sam,” Gore chided. “It's not as if your division hasn't done the like.”

“On with it, Gore,” Gene barked.

“Well, Tom was a smarmy bastard, but he gave us useful information, and he provided... special favors to myself and Babbin,” Gore continued.

Gene scrunched up his nose and drew back a bit. “Special favors?”

“He had access to... shall we say, illegal substances?” Gore answered dryly.

Gene swore. “You're more crooked than I thought.”

Gore rubbed his bruised jaw. “Thanks, Hunt. But it only gets better.” There was a strange smile on his face now, a cold, mirthless smile that reminded Sam of a scary movie he had seen once involving a demonic puppet. “You see, old Tom finally got on the nerves of that lot down at The Gilded Button, and Boardman, one of their regulars, complained. Babbin and I warned Tom to lie low a bit, take a break from the Button, but he was having none of it. With us right there, he attacked Boardman as he was leaving the restaurant through the back alley.”

“And Boardman must've fought back,” Ray put in. “Killing Gypsy Tom.”

Gore raised an eyebrow at the DS. “Is that what you think?”

Sam shook his head, only just now grasping what had actually happened. “No. Boardman didn't kill Tom. It makes so much sense now! Tom killed Boardman! They were both around the same size, had the same look, so Tom took Boardman's clothes and pretended to be him for two weeks. That explains the dog, the change of attitude at work—everything!”

There was a moment of silence. A shocked look came over Ray's face, and Gene swore again.

“Clever boy,” Gore remarked to Sam with a sneer. “Too clever. We found out that you were investigating what had happened, and you kept coming back to the restaurant. You were getting too close, and we had to stop you.”

Sam narrowed his eyes on Gore. “But I don't think you're stupid enough to kill someone just to frame me...”

“Which makes sense, because he didn't kill Gypsy Tom,” Gene spoke up, crossing his arms over his chest and glancing back at Sam. “He's just been doing his very best to protect the one who did.”

Gene's words confirmed Sam's suspicions, and he met the Guv's eyes. In unison, they said, “Babbin.”

At that moment, the door to the office burst open, and there stood Chris and Annie, staring wide-eyed at the aftermath of the brawl.

“Uh... Guv?” Chris stammered, at the same time Annie exclaimed, “Guv, I found the dog!”

“Gypsy Tom's dog,” Sam said.

Annie frowned in confusion. “What?”

“It's a complicated mess,” Gene explained with a scowl. “Apparently, Tom killed Boardman and took his clothes, then Babbin killed Tom.”

“And the dog was Tom's?” Chris asked.

“Yes. Apparently.” Sam turned to Babbin, who was still hunched on his knees, glowering at Sam, Gene and Ray. He knew the big, foolish man had killed Gypsy Tom, but he still was unsure as to why. “So why did you do it, DS Babbin? Why did you kill him?”

“He was makin' too much noise!” Babbin replied vehemently. “Drawin' too much attention to himself by arguin' with the neighbors over that bloody dog. That Wanda woman is a smart one, she is. She woulda noticed sooner or later it wasn't Boardman livin' next door. And if he were found out, he woulda told on us.”

The cold logic behind Babbin's reasoning chilled Sam inside, and he shivered.

“Then I found out what Babbin had done,” Gore picked up the story. “He confessed it to me of course. And I had to cover his tracks, cover our tracks. Detective Inspector Sam Tyler was the perfect target. He lives alone and has a reputation for being a bit eccentric.”

Sam rolled his eyes.

“And he was too damn clever to be left alone. He was so close to figuring us out.” Gore shrugged. “This was the perfect way to kill two birds with one stone. So I bought that hideous suit and followed your DI home. Fortunately for me, he wasn't feeling well. He was careless—left his door opened and slept hard. I was easily able to drop a bit of Boardman's blood on his shirt and rip a page out of his notes that he just left lying around.”

Sam swallowed and looked down, feeling both rueful and relieved—rueful that he had left his door unlocked and left important papers around, relieved that Gore hadn't been as murderous as his DS. What if he had just decided to kill me then and there? Would I even have woke up? And if I had, would I have been able to fight him off? He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the file cabinet, his breath releasing in a shaky sigh.

“Then I gave the suit away to a random vagrant,” Gore finished. “And that's it. You know the rest.”

“Yeah. The rest is that you accused my DI of murder—a murder which you covered up,” Gene answered darkly.

“And nearly got away with,” Gore reminded him with a smirk.

“But didn't,” Sam said, lifting his chin. “We've found you out. We have a confession, and we have evidence—the mixed up bodies, the dog hairs that will undoubtedly match the dog Annie's found. ”

“You're finished, Gore,” Gene told him, standing. “You and your toady, Babbin. This is what happens when you mess with Gene Hunt and his own.” The Guv turned to look at his officers, each in turn, ending with Ray. “DS Carling, I want you and DC Skelton to escort Gore and Babbin to a cell. Cartwright, call the superintendent and let him know what's just happened.”

With a synchronized, “Yes, Guv,” the three officers moved to obey. Ray yanked Babbin up off the floor, while Chris moved to Gore's side and motioned for the disgraced DCI to stand. Annie turned and hurried out of the office after tossing Sam an encouraging smile.

Sam took a deep breath and forced himself to stand, using the file cabinet for support. He still felt a bit dizzy, and his ribs pinched with every breath he took. “What do you want me to do, Guv?”

“Stay right here, Tyler,” Gene told him. “You and I are having a talk.”

Sam's heart sank at the tone of his DCI's voice. What have I done wrong now?

 

Gene haphazardly rearranged the items scattered across his desk and watched from the corner of his eye as Sam commenced to straightening up the office. The skinny little tosser was making sure everything was lined up symmetrically, all the papers that had been scattered in the fight were stacked in the right order, all the items knocked down were put back just where they had been. The Guv shook his head. “Tyler, sit down, for God's sake.”

Sam flinched and stopped rearranging the trophies on top of the filing cabinet. Slowly, he sank into the chair he had replaced in front of Gene's desk. The DI's face was paler than usual, which was saying something. His eyes had a glassy look, too. “What is it, Guv?”

“Just relax, Sam,” Gene ordered as he reached into his desk and withdrew a flask of Scotch and an empty glass. “Can't have you passing out again. I'm tired of having to lug you around all the time.”

“Sorry to be such a bother, Guv,” Sam replied, crossing his arms over his chest. One corner of his lips twitched slightly, confirming the hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“Scotch?” Gene offered Sam the flask, barely believing what he was doing.

“No. Thanks.” The younger man shook his head.

“Good. More for me.” Gene poured himself a glass and took a deep gulp.

“I know you're probably thirsty after exerting yourself, but we should probably be doing something productive, don't you think?” Sam pointed out in that maddening know-it-all manner.

“Shut yer gob, Tyler,” Gene retorted. He took another long swallow, savoring it. He looked askance at his second-in-command. “You don't look up to doing much of anything productive.”

“I'm fine,” Sam insisted quietly.

“Hmf.” Gene shrugged. “Anyways, we'll have enough to do once our superiors get wind of this whole mess.” He sighed and shook his head. “'S a shame coppers had to go bad like that.” The Scotch was working quickly, he noticed, making him maudlin, loosening his tongue. Must be the adrenaline from the fight, pushing the alcohol through his veins. Or maybe he was just getting used to unloading on Sam Tyler. “Makes you worry sometimes if the same thing'll happen to you.”

“No.” Sam shook his head. “Not to us, Guv.”

They met each other's eyes, and Gene instantly understood what Sam was saying without saying: I'll keep you straight, Guv. I'll keep us all in line. It was enough to make Gene want to pat the DI on the back... and at the same time, enough to make him want to smack the little tart for being so smug, for taking so much on his own scrawny shoulders.

Sam grinned his cheeky little grin.

If he hadn't been so banged up by crooked coppers, Gene might have smacked him. Instead, the DCI cleared his throat and glanced at the nearest clock. “Well, Tyler, think we can make it to the pub by five?”

“I think so. Yeah.”

“Good. Until then, here's a load of paperwork for you to do.” He stood and grabbed up a crinkled stack of papers from the edge of his desk. “Since I'm officially un-arresting you, you'd best get movin' and convince me yer not useless so I don't change me mind and lock you back up.”

Sam stood. “I'll get to work, Guv. I've had enough of being arrested.” He took the papers from Gene and strode out of the office toward his own desk, some of the swagger back in his walk, although he still carried himself a bit stiffly.

Gene watched him until the door slammed, then sighed and plopped down into his chair, running a hand down his face. He had come so close to losing Sam... too close. But now Sam was safe. The men who had tried to kill him—who had betrayed everyone in CID—were going behind bars. And there would be much celebration at the pub.

Everything would go back to normal, Gene decided. He chuckled a bit as he lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. Except for maybe this time, he would keep a better watch on his DI, who seemed to have a knack for getting into trouble.


	16. Chapter 16

Part Sixteen

“The firecrackers.” Sam shook his head and sighed. “That's when I should have known.”

“Excuse me?” Gene looked up from his cards and took the cigarette from his lips, peering quizzically at his DI. “What are you moanin' about, Gladys?”

“The fact that I should have known earlier,” Sam insisted. The younger man's mind had wandered off entirely from the poker game in the pub. “It's just the sort of thing a childish person like Babbin and a petty person like Gore would do.”

“It's your go, Guv,” Ray spoke up from Gene's right, clearly impatient with Sam's over-analysis of the case.

Gene had to admit, the DI was making sense. But... They had a game to play. “We'll discuss this later, but for now...” He smiled broadly, pleased with himself, as he laid his cards on the table. “Three tens.”

Ray groaned and scooped up his pair of eights, tossing the cards into the discard pile.

Chris sighed, resigned. “I've got nothin',” he informed the others, laying his cards on the table.

Gene winced as he looked down at Chris's hand. “Then why didn't yeh fold, Chris?”

Chris shrugged. “I thought maybe you were bluffin'.”

“What, all three of us?” Ray scoffed. “That's not likely, ya div.”

“Oh well.” The DC shrugged again.

“Sam,” Gene prompted.

Sam was looking away from the table, looking toward the window, his eyes unfocused.

He was still injured, Gene reminded himself with a wince. Probably still running a fever. He found himself suddenly wishing he hadn't talked his DI into this poker game. Maybe he should have let him go home, get some rest.

“Boss.” Chris nudged Sam's elbow with his own.

“Oh. Sorry.” Sam blinked rapidly and turned back to the table, casually laying down his cards. “Full house,” he murmured, still seeming distracted.

“What!?” Ray exclaimed.

Gene was wondering the same thing. How had Sam managed that? “Are you cheating, Tyler?”

“Who, me? No. 'Course not.” Sam grinned a bit, finally.

Gene realized he had been missing that grin. He held back a sigh of relief. “Well. You win, then.”

“Good.” Sam nodded, still seeming distracted... and maybe a bit tired, Gene thought. Probably still in a bit of pain. He watched in concern as the DI scooped his winnings into a neat little pile in front of him.

Then Gene stood. He couldn't take much more worry like this. “Come on, Tyler. Get your jacket.”

“What?” Sam looked up at him with a frown of confusion.

“We're goin' to discuss the case and talk about them firecrackers,” Gene told him, though he intended to do no such thing.

“Not playin' another round of poker, Guv?” Chris asked.

“Not tonight. You and Ray play war or sommat.” As Chris and Ray began to banter over card games, Gene walked away from the table and waited for Sam at the edge of the bar. He watched as Sam slid gingerly into his jacket and left the table.

“What's going on, Guv?” Sam asked as he approached the bar.

Gene fought down the urge to grin at or smack his DI. Tired, beat up and distracted, and the little bastard still noticed things. “Come on.” He jerked his head in the direction of the door.

“Where are we going?” Sam wondered aloud as he followed his DCI across the pub.

“My house,” Gene grunted.

“To look at what's left of those firecrackers?” Sam inquired, looking askance at the Guv. He clearly didn't believe that, not for a moment. Too smart for his own good, was Sam Tyler.

“Just come on!” Gene snapped.

With a wave to Nelson, Gene led Sam out onto the street and to the Cortina. “Get in,” he ordered.

Sam stood still by the car and lifted his chin. “Could you please just tell me what's going on?” he asked, a hint of irritation slipping into his voice.

“What? Is there something you'd rather do tonight, Sammy-boy? You got plans to go see some girl? Or maybe—maybe watch a little telly?” Gene countered.

Sam flinched a bit. “Well, no... But--”

“But nothin'. Get. In. The car.”

“Fine.” Sam sighed like an eye-rolling teenager and plopped into the passenger seat as Gene climbed in on the driver's side.

Gene didn't miss Sam's soft hiss of pain at the quick motion. He slammed his door shut and cranked up the Cortina. “We're goin' to my house so you can get some good food in ya and maybe even some medicine,” he informed the younger man as he steered the car away from the curb. It was too late now for Sam to protest or get out of the car.

“Oh.” Sam was quiet for a moment, perhaps startled into silence. “Well... Thanks, Guv. I--”

“Now don't go babblin' at me, Tyler,” Gene interrupted. If Sam went all sappy on him, he didn't know what he would do. He just knew he would regret it later. “I can't have my second-in-command fainting like a little girl on the next job because he won't take care of himself. In case you've forgotten, you had the crap beaten out of you very recently, and you haven't had much rest since.”

Sam seemed to relax a bit in the seat, looking straight ahead. “Fine. Kidnap me. Whatever.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “As long as I get to eat your wife's cooking...”

 

Things had changed, Sam realized. Changed again. Was his life always going to be doing that, shifting and changing and keeping him off-balance? He sighed and climbed out of Gene's car, stricken with the urge to stretch, but resistant of it, because he knew such movement would hurt. He turned to Gene, who was looking sideways at him over the top of the Cortina.

“Well?”

“Least I didn't have to drag yeh out of the car this time, Tyler,” Gene replied quickly, looking away from his DI and walking toward the house. “Come along then.”

Sam followed Gene across the yard, feeling suddenly awkward. Gene was right. The last time he had been here, the Guv had practically carried him into the house. Then Gene and Alice had kept him alive—kept his fever down, fed him, wrapped his cracked ribs. He felt himself blushing and stood rubbing the back of his head as Gene turned the knob on the front door.

Gene started to step inside, then turned to look back at Sam, eyes narrowed.

It was strange, this concern coming from Gene. It was almost as if the Guv had gotten used to looking after him while he was hurt and sick. Come to think of it, he may have been looking after me all along. I just didn't see it. But things had changed now. This last case had changed everything, brought things out in the open.

“You okay, Sam?” Gene asked quietly.

Sam bobbed his head. “Yeah. Fine.”

Gene hesitated, then closed the door and stepped back from it, turning to Sam. “Don't you let this go to you head or ever repeat what I'm about to say.” He wagged a gloved finger in Sam's face. “If you do, I swear to you, I will make what those louts did to you feel like a massage. You got that?”

Sam barely restrained a smirk. He was sure now, finally, that Gene would do no such thing. Maybe they'd have a punch-up once in a while, but Gene would never endanger his life. It was funny to think it, but Gene cared about him in a strange, bossy sort of way. “I've got it, Guv.”

“Alright. So here goes...” Gene looked away from his DI, fidgeting with his gloves. Finally, he looked back at Sam, and there was sincerity in his eyes. “I'm proud of you, Sam.”

Sam blinked and leaned closer to Gene, doubting what he thought he'd heard. “Excuse me, what?”

Gene ground his teeth together. “I'm proud of you, Sam,” he repeated slowly.

“Oh.” Sam straightened, eyebrows rising. “Really? For what?” He still wasn't quite processing his DCI's words.

“For the way you've handled yourself through this whole... situation,” Gene elaborated, his eyes wandering. “You didn't give in to Gore and Babbin's bullying. You didn't... give up and die. And although you fainted a few times like a girly ponce, you were willing to help the rest of us with the investigation, in spite of being injured.” His lips twitched with a barely restrained smile. “And the sight of you kicking at that bastard Babbin was bloody hilarious.”

DI and DCI met each other's eyes.

Sam couldn't help it. He had to laugh. And to his pleasant surprise, Gene laughed along with him. Sam laughed until his ribs started to ache again, then groaned and wrapped an arm around his waist. “Oh, God. Don't make me laugh like that, Gene.” He sighed and leaned back against the cool brick exterior of the Hunts' house.

“Stop being a silly girl, and come on.” Gene patted Sam's arm and opened the door, then walked inside.

Sam grinned and hesitated for a moment before following the Guv. He had to savor these small victories.

Sometimes change was good.

Sam was so glad he wasn't at home alone.

 

Gene closed his eyes and sighed, leaning into his wife's touch. “Oh, God, yes,” he murmured.

Alice laughed softly and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek as she continued to knead his shoulders with deft fingers.

Gene thought back on his threat to Sam, and his eyes drifted to where the skinny DI was sleeping on the sofa. He supposed Sam was going to stay the night... which was probably for the best. If the lad went home alone, there was no telling what might happen. He could wind up sick or handcuffed to his bed or framed for murder or attacked...

“Shall we adopt him?” Alice asked softly, leaning over her husband's shoulder,

Gene “hmphed” and shrugged his shoulders. “Do we have a choice? He's a good man, Alice. A good policeman. It would be a waste to let him get killed in some stupid way.” He ran a hand down his face, despairing of Sam Tyler's propensity for trouble. “And he's always getting in situations that lead to getting killed in stupid ways.”

Alice released Gene's shoulders and slowly stood up from the easy chair.

“Where are you going?” Gene asked, frowning at the absence of massage. He tugged at one leg of Alice's trousers.

“Oh, you!” Alice nudged him with her foot, grinning. “I've got dishes to do! Or don't you want me to have pans to cook breakfast in tomorrow?”

Gene sighed. “A'right, woman. You win. Make it snappy, though!”

Alice stuck out her tongue at him and hurried off into the kitchen.

Gene stood and stretched, then plopped gracelessly into his easy chair, turning to look at Sam. The DI had fallen asleep soon after supper, clearly worn out with the events of the day, and perhaps... comfy, at ease with Gene and Alice.

“You hang in there, Sam,” he told the sleeping man softly. “And don't you worry. I'll be lookin' after yeh. Even if I have to knock some sense into yeh every once in a while.” You're not alone, Sam, he added silently.

 

Sam was dreaming about a forest by a lake. It was dark and cold, and he was alone, running through the trees, beside the water. He was frantic to find someone else.

The dream world blurred and shifted, and now he was running down a dark corridor.

Then a voice broke through the haze.

“You're not alone, Sam.”

And Sam smiled in his sleep.


End file.
